


The Picture of Vincent Noir

by sheshouldhavebeenason



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV), The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Dorian Gray - Freeform, Drama, Gay, Idiots in Love, Leroy's an asshole, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26123932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheshouldhavebeenason/pseuds/sheshouldhavebeenason
Summary: When Howard Moon decides to take up art, he gets much more than he bargained for. A Booshy, canon-compliant take on Oscar Wilde's 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'.
Relationships: Howard Moon & Vince Noir, Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. They Really Want You, and I Do Too

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on my Fanfiction account back in 2011, so I figured I'd bring it over to a new audience!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince physically prepares for another night out.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Doll Parts' by Hole.

"Vince! What the hell are you doing in there?" shouted an irate Howard Moon, incessantly hammering at the bathroom door with his fists. After thirty seconds had passed with the continual hum of a hairdryer as his only response- like the hundred other times he'd asked that same question in the past twenty minutes- he tried again. "Vince, come on! It's half eleven at night!" Thirty seconds… going once, twice, gone. Sighing in frustration, Howard accepted defeat and attempted to wait patiently outside the door. Three hours locked away in the bathroom? That was a bit excessive even by the standards of his younger companion.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wait much longer. "Alright, cool ya boots!" defended Vince nonchalantly as he emerged from the room in question. "I was just gettin' ready."

Howard eyed his friend quizzically. "Ready for what?" he asked, already dreading what was sure to be a disheartening answer.

"Ready for what? You mean you haven't heard?" cried Vince incredulously. When his question was replied to with a look made up of equal parts sarcasm and blankness- a look Howard had mastered in dealing with Vince over the years- he barreled on. "It's only the grand opening of the biggest nightclub this side of Dalston!"

Howard sighed again. There it was. He was used to his friend's evenings of debauchery and superficial affairs in the night life of nearly all of England's greatest cities, but lately they seemed to be happening more and more frequently. Normal people slow down as they age. But not Vince. In the past month or so, his nights out had changed from a Friday and/or Saturday deal to a whenever-the-hell-it's-possible kind of thing. And Howard didn't like that at all. He'd always figured Vince would realize one day that there was more to life than an endless string of parties and one-dimensional club characters, but the renowned electro prince was too caught up in his life in the fast lane. He'd been speeding down the freeway so furiously and absent-mindedly that he'd missed any opportunity of taking the exits; now it seemed he was stuck, and he'd be racing down these freeways until the brakes were rendered useless, and he'd crash into a vehicle much bigger and fiercer than his own. What that vehicle represented- alcohol, violence, drugs- Howard wasn't sure of. But it was a black, ominous figure whose break lights seemed redder, brighter and closer than ever. Snapping himself out of this metaphorical reverie, Howard asked, "Another nightclub? What makes this one different than all the others, hm? The bartender an android sent from another dimension? The DJ actually a land-shark meant to deliver a message to King Poseidon's chosen one?"

"That'd be genius!" exclaimed Vince, his 1000-watt smile lighting up his defined face and showing absolutely no registration of his friend's biting derision. "But, no. Leroy knows the owner, yeah, and he says she's an absolute lunatic! She was arrested back in 2005 for stealing a hundred ferrets from a local pet store, training them up as pick-pockets and setting them loose in a children's primary school for their lunch money. Imagine that!"

Howard looked disgusted. "And that's good, is it?"

"Yeah! The lady's absolutely nutters; imagine what kind of club she'll run! It's gonna be complete insanity!" The smile didn't fade at all, as he genuinely tried to get the man before him as excited as he was.

"I worry about you, Vince," commented Howard, dolefully and earnestly. "You're nearly thirty years old; when are you going to stop all this?"

"Yeah, well, I'm not yours to worry about, am I?" shot back Vince, with a bitterness not usually found in the self-proclaimed Sunshine Kid. "Like you said, I'm nearly thirty. I know how to take care of myself."

"I know, Vince, I know," Howard backed off, taken slightly aback by the man's outburst. "So… tell me more about this club, then," he added, trying to mollify him.

"Well, m'not sure how much there is to say, really," started Vince, clearly relaxing. "Except I heard that there are three bartenders, identical triplets of different genders, who act out scenes from Clint Eastwood films as they take orders, and there are…"

Instead of correcting his information by telling Vince that multi-sex identical triplets are a genetic impossibility, Howard simply tuned out his words, but kept nodding every so often when he heard a particularly important sounding intonation. He instead focused on what Vince had done to himself during those three hours of primping and preening in the bathroom. His raven hair was piled high above his head- Joan Jett meets Marge Simpson, he laughed to himself- and yet still managed to frame his face impeccably. The undying sparkle in his sapphire eyes was accentuated by a thin layer of dark eyeliner- Crepuscular Haze, Howard decided he'd dub the color- and a hint of mascara. His clothing was flamboyant, as always; his jet black shirt bore waves of rainbow sequins and hung off one pale shoulder; his skin-tight jeans were ripped sporadically, revealing an even tighter set of neon pink pants underneath; his ankle-high boots were white, new, and undoubtedly yet to be customized. Endless amounts of bright, sparkly jewelry hung off his body, and Howard shook his head in disappointment. Vince was beautiful- Howard was, like everyone else, very aware of that- but he looked much better without all the adornment. He was much more beautiful when he was… well, Vince, and not the Mayor of Camden.

There wasn't a night that Vince had gone out and come home alone. Howard had the routine down; he'd evacuate their room and crash on the couch. Not that he ever slept. He was too worried about Vince's well-being to drift off when he was out, and he was too jealous of whatever trash he'd brought home to give into any somniferous impulse when he'd returned. And no, Howard didn't miss the irony: he, a man of substance, a man of grand design, lacked the one thing that would make him complete, while the empty, vacuous cretins of the night life procured it and stayed just as hollow as they would've been without it.

"Howard!" Vince's voice awoke him from his mental veering.

"Yeah?"

"I said, 'do I look alright?'"

"You look like a tin foil tartlet."

Vince smiled, completely unaware of the mockery once again. "Cheers, Howard. I'm tryna get the attention of the owner, and-"

"What? The ferret lady?" asked the older man, caught as off guard as could be.

"Yeah! Like I said, she's absolutely nutters. So imagine what she'd be like in-"

"I beg of you, sir, do not finish that sentence."

Vince laughed, in an almost automatic way. "Alright, Howard. You'll be fine on your own, yeah?"

Howard nodded, more impulsively than honestly, upon remembering that Naboo and Bollo were due out this evening for a restock at Shamansbury's.

The sudden silence that had snuck up on them was broken by the abrasive, polyphonic tune of Gary Numan's 'Cars' emanating from Vince's phone in the bathroom, the owner of which rushed to answer. "…Yeah? …Alright, cheers! See you in a bit. Later." Howard had no doubt of the meaning behind the one-sided conversation he'd overheard, and it was confirmed when Vince returned to his sight. "Leroy's here to take us down. Later, Howard."

The older man nodded to hide his burgeoning sorrow and returned the salutation. "See ya, Little Man."

Vince flashed him a slightly affectionate- but predominantly melancholy- smile at the nickname, and then proceeded down the stairs of the flat and out to the streets to meet up with his beloved Leroy.

Ugh. Leroy. He and Howard used to be good friends, but at this point the only thing keeping them in each other's lives was Vince. It wasn't as if Leroy loved the charismatic, aspiring rock star in the same way he did. He knew that. But it didn't stop his jealousy from becoming bitterer and bitterer with each instance they spent time together. Howard was convinced that Leroy had corrupted his precious Vince. His sweet, innocent co-worker from the Zooniverse had been replaced by a lecherous partier, and it was not lost on Howard that this was the exact description he'd used in regards to Leroy since they were teenagers. Never had these changes appeared as obvious as they had in the weeks since he'd returned from his brief stint with avant-garde director Jurgen Haabermaaster, and he had a fairly certain guess at why: when Howard was gone, Vince had undoubtedly spent even more time with Leroy, warping his fragile little mind beyond repair.

Ugh. Leroy.

Howard knew that he'd need something to keep himself occupied, or he'd go insane with worry and envy. But he wasn't in the mood to do anything. Lately, the things he'd always loved seemed to be mocking him. Literature? It only served to remind him of his many failures at becoming a writer, poet and journalistic photographer. Film? It only served to remind him of his humiliating failure as an actor. Music? It only served to remind him of how he'd sold out his passion for jazz to become an electro composer- for the sake of Vince, to make matters worse- and failed miserably at that as well. Everything he loved had let him down- or was it the other way around, he wondered- and this left him with an uncomfortable emptiness. If only he could quell his overactive mind enough to get to sleep.

He retreated to his bedroom, deciding that if he couldn't beat his misery and self-aimed sorrow, he might as well wallow in it like a proper dejected social pariah. He'd close the blinds, immerse himself in darkness, lie on his bed, and stare up at the ceiling. Yeah. Take that, unreachable happiness.

Howard's plans for a night of self loathing were put on hold, however, as he glanced at Vince's side of the room. It was a mess, as usual. Clothes, cosmetics, cassette tapes and various unmentionables of blinding hues were strewn about his unmade bed; 1980s-style posters cluttered the wall, some of them peeling off at the edges from the flimsy, home-made, pink adhesive; drawers were left open at his small, childlike desk, which he'd painted himself, naturally.

The only time Vince ever used this desk was when he was creating artwork: something he hadn't done in much too long, something that Howard missed immensely. Vince would stay up 'til all hours of the night slaving over a blank paper or canvas, working with paints and oils and utensils, until he'd created something unmistakably imaginative and indelibly Noir. When he was satisfied with his work, he'd rush over to Howard's bed and pounce on his sleeping form, as excited as a young child on Christmas morning, shouting at him to wake up and look at what he'd created. Howard would always be impressed with his artistic abilities and never made an attempt to disguise that, which is why he'd ended up buying him a small easel to work on, as well as a professional-quality painter's kit. Vince had been thrilled by the gifts; he'd stayed in the entire weekend working on his art in unusual secrecy, amazed at how much more comfortable a proper easel made the process. That Sunday, he'd presented Howard with the reason behind his private work: he'd been slaving over a portrait of the man himself until it was absolutely perfect. He'd even sacrificed his sacred neon for the use of earth tones, to guarantee Howard's satisfaction. The older man had been rendered speechless, and he'd even welled up- although he'd never admit it, no, sir- at the signature in the bottom right corner: "To Howard, who's always believed in me. Cheers, and love ya. –Vince, xx." The portrait now hung framed over the subject's bed, but these days it seemed to inspire more depressing nostalgia than anything else.

The easel had grown dusty with neglect, as had the desk on which it sat. What a perfect way to describe their friendship, Howard thought: dusty and neglected. He unwittingly found himself sitting at the barstool in front of the small desk, glancing at all of the once treasured art supplies. Then an idea hit him: if Vince wasn't going to use them, why couldn't he? Sure, he'd never had much experience in the visual arts before. But they seemed to be calling out his name. 'Howard Moon: Artist Extraordinaire.' He quite liked the appellation.

And with such a tortured soul as his, what more inspiration could one have to produce absolutely breath taking artwork?


	2. I'm Too Busy Acting Like I'm Not Naive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince mentally prepares for another night out.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Very Ape' by NIrvana.

Vince really didn't understand why he voluntarily surrounded himself with such negative people. There was Naboo, who was either indifferent or annoyed about anything he couldn't smoke. There was Howard, who resisted everything even slightly out of the realm of what he considered to be normalcy. Then there was Leroy, who, despite his constant interaction with the public, had a serious aversion to real human relationships and never passed up the chance to slander those who could nurture them. Naboo was tired of the ceaseless idiotic mistakes of his human companions; Howard was trapped by his list of failures and the fear of making said list any lengthier. But what exactly was Leroy's excuse? Listening to his misanthropic philosophies night after night used to be entertaining, but it was getting to be disturbing; and deep down, Vince was afraid of becoming just like his friend. It was no surprise that Leroy started in on him almost as soon as he entered in the passenger's side of his flashy sports car.

"So, how's Howard?" he asked mock-inquisitively, staring dead ahead at the road before him.

Vince sighed and slouched down into the leather seat. Not this again… Leroy was his second best friend in rank, but he was the only person Vince was able to show his surprisingly wide range of emotions to. Not intentionally, of course. It was just that while Howard only thought he knew everything, Leroy actually seemed to. Vince couldn't hide from him; he saw into his soul with a more perspicacious and intimidating stare than even Tony the Prawn had. "He's fine," Vince mumbled grudgingly, crossing his arms tight to his chest like an irritated teenager. "Can we not talk about this tonight? This is supposed to be fun, yeah?"

Leroy smiled with unusual affection. Likewise, Vince was the only person he seemed to be able to be himself around. "We both know you're not gonna be havin' fun tonight. You won't let yourself."

"Oh, come off it. That's bullshit and you know it."

"No, it's really not. Ever since Howard left for Denmark, you've been completely different. I've actually had to be your wing-man, Vince. Since when did you need assistance picking people up?"

"I've just had a few things on my mind, s'all."

"Yeah, well, that needs to stop," stated Leroy, matter-of-factly. "You need to get over this. And don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about, because you know damn well that I know you do."

"I said come off it, alright?" repeated Vince, his voice much terser this time.

"This is exactly why you shouldn't let yourself fall in love."

"And just what the hell would you know about that?" Vince cried with a dramatic vocal crack, setting himself in an upright position.

"About love? Not much. But about you?" Leroy let the words sink in to silence his friend before continuing. "I get it, Vince. I may not understand why you are, but you're in love with Howard, and it's very…" he paused, wondering if he could allow himself to say the word, and then did so, awkwardly: "…sweet. And-"

"And that's all there is to it, alright? Now let's drop this and talk about the club owner instead."

"No, because that's not all there is to it. I think I've worked out why you've changed so much. Care to hear my theory?" When Vince remained mute, he prompted, "You don't have to tell me if it's right or not. Just listen."

"Oh, please, Leroy. Enlighten me."

The driver perked up smugly, still keeping his eyes steadily focused on the road. "I think you're scared because he left," he began. "You let your feelings get to the point of no return, and then he left you at the drop of a hat to work for some ball-bag director. For Christ's sake, you wouldn't get out of bed for a week after-"

"I was sick!" Vince weakly defended.

"Oh yeah? You seemed to heal a bit once Naboo hired that Adam geezer. He was an awful lot like someone else we know, wasn't he? Coincidence?"

"…No… Adam was… a doctor. Hired by Naboo to help me recover. Naboo had told 'im I don't like doctors, so he dressed up like that to make me feel more comfortable, like I knew 'im an' stuff." Vince felt his heart sink as Leroy shook his head in annoyance; he couldn't build up jokingly bullshit stories with just anyone. That was his and Howard's thing. The Jenga Jokes, they called it.

"Spare me, Vince. You were lost without him. His leaving made you realize you value him much more than he values you. And now you're all depressed. What happened? Whenever you were feeling lovesick before, a night out would help you feel better. Now you're all… dull." Leroy knew using this last word would prompt the reaction he was after.

"Dull?" exclaimed Vince. "I'm not dull, you twit! It just isn't fair, Leroy, it ain't fair! I always assumed we'd end up together, so it didn't matter what I did, 'cuz he'd always be there… but now it's an effort to go out, 'cuz I feel like if I offend him in any way, he'll leave again, and I can't deal with that, Leroy, I can't! And then I realize that he wouldn't be offended even if I go off and shag all of Europe, 'cuz he only thinks I'm some shallow idiot, anyway, so I'd just be playing the part, and…" He let his voice trail off as he noticed the verbal trap that he'd been set in. "Fuck off, Leroy," he spat, angry with himself for being so easily manipulated.

Leroy smiled, satisfied, as the car rolled on up to its destination. He parked, and then turned to Vince before killing the ignition. "Listen to me. You have nothing to worry about and nothing to feel guilty about. He won't be jealous, he won't be offended and he won't leave. Meanwhile, you've gotta break yourself of this love. You've gotta loosen up; get back to the old you. You're Vince Noir! You could leave with the owner, DJ, and all three bartenders if you wanted to."

"But I don't wa-"

"You do want to. All these years of following him around, and you got nothing but patronized and then abandoned. That doesn't get you pissed? And if you say no, I swear to fuckin' Jagger, Vince-"

"It does, but I-"

"So act on it," interrupted Leroy. The look in his eyes was so tempting, so damn persuasive and beguiling. "Forget about him, and get back to bein' my partner in crime. Whaddya say?"

Mouth completely dry, Vince nodded weakly in acceptance. In the back of his mind, he heard Bollo say something about a bad feeling.


	3. I Want It Painted Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard never learns from his past.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Paint It, Black' by The Rolling Stones.

Two hours. Two hours Howard had been sitting there at that desk, barely illuminated by a tiny, heavily-shaded lamp, trying to get the artistic magic flowing. And what did he come up with in his 120 minutes of striving? A few poorly drawn sketches of a man with instruments for limbs. Slamming his head down in his arms on the surface of the desk, he knew why he was having such trouble. Even when Vince wasn't around, he was thoroughly distracting.

He wished he could be like Francisco Goya. Now there was a painter who knew how to turn misery into art. His macabre imagery is piercing and beautiful, displaying the potential evil and darkness that awaits in all of human nature. The horror of his paintings is canceled out by the splendor and mastery with which they were brought to life, and they serve to be more than simply snuff pieces meant to terrify; they symbolize the sinister side that stays dormant until awoken in all of humanity.

All of humanity but Vince, corrected Howard. Vince could never be evil. Hopelessly selfish? Well, that was another story. But that didn't make him a bad person. Even with what Howard saw as his corruption taking its toll, Vince wasn't a bad guy by any means. Just a little more air-headed than most.

Howard glanced over above his bed, to his portrait. If only he could create something like that! But at this moment, he didn't consider talent to be the factor between his abilities and Vince's; it was all down to happiness and comfort. Howard never really had either of those. He briefly wondered if Naboo would notice if he took a few hits from his dear hookah…

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me!" Howard cried as the meager light from the lamp suddenly died out. Couldn't anything go his way? Ever? He sat himself up, resisted the urge to twist the skin on his right arm, and leaned over to remove the dead bulb from the socket. But as soon as his hand was upon the curved glass, it flicked back to life, effectively burning him with surprising ferocity. He immediately withdrew, and slouched back down. This was a stupid idea.

A few moments of silence passed before a pronounced Italian accent sounded from behind him. "Howard Moon?"

The man in question bolted upright and, too afraid to turn around, asked waveringly, "Who's there?"

"You can look at me, Howard. I'm not going to hurt you. In fact, I abhor violence." The voice said this in a way that made it seem as if it expected some kind of reward for being a pacifist.

Howard tentatively turned to face where the voice had come from, and gasped in sheer surprise at what awaited him. The voice belonged to what seemed to be a man- although that could be up for debate- who didn't look nearly as Italian as he sounded. His lithe, slim form was dressed in a flowing, pale blue smock and navy skinny jeans, with black Doc Martens working to contradict his otherwise feminine appearance. His face had a shape similar to Vince's: pointy and angular. Thick, long, black hair with several bright blue streaks framed his features, as thick Buddy Holly-style glasses did to his nearly invisible dark eyes. On top of his seemingly intentionally disheveled hair was a maroon beret, successfully pulling together every single stereotype of a hipster-artist in one ostensibly condescending package. As if to confirm this belief, his crooked smile and arched eyebrow glanced at the frustrated man in front of him almost mockingly. "Who… who are you?" Howard asked, his voice breaking. Oh, come on. I can't really be intimidated by this guy. ...Right?

"Who am I? I," the figure began, with a smooth, outward gesture of his arm, "am the Soul of Art." His tone was proud. Smug. Sort of like an effeminate Dixon Bainbridge.

"Oh, no," Howard protested, taking comfort in realizing why he was so intimidated. "I don't need to get myself mixed up in any more spirits of things, so if you could kindly let me be, I w-"

"Spirit?" asked the figure, looking genuinely offended. "Did you not hear me? I am the Soul of Art."

"There's a difference, is there?" Howard asked in sarcastic disbelief.

The Soul of Art rolled his eyes and sighed in obvious annoyance. "Of course there is. The spirits are much too mainstream. The souls, on the other hand… we're what lives inside the substance."

"No, no, no!" Howard continued to protest, with barely contained gesticulations. "I've spent a good portion of my life trying to rid myself of one of you lot, and I don't need to be thrown back into it all, so I bid you good night, sir."

The figure only arched his eyebrow further upward, amused. "Oh, Howard. The Spirit of Jazz, right?"

"How… how did you know that?"

"Souls and spirits talk. But you have to understand the main difference between the two. Spirits embody the feel of a work, the general aura of their subject. Souls are what truly make up the subject; we are the subject. We don't pit humans up against the subject of their desire like the spirits do. We help them find the link between their souls and ours." He concluded this little speech with a gentle smile. Smug. Yes; very, very smug.

"I… I don't know. I can't think about this right now," Howard faltered, drawn in by the irritatingly beguiling persona of the thing before him.

"Come on, Howard. I can make you one of the greats! You have a lot of inner torment in that bleak soul of yours, torment that's dying to come out. I could channel that for you. I could make you like Blake, like Van Gogh… like Goya. Come on, Howard. I won't make you do anything embarrassing; I swear it," his tone became much sweeter, but unnervingly so.

Howard bit his lip in the frustration of his indecision, and then glanced back to the portrait above his bed. Such personality, such feeling, such soul was ambient of every brush stroke. If he could paint something like that… "What does it entail?"

"What do you mean, 'what does it entail'?" the Soul asked, his voice abruptly harsher, the blue in his hair turning a fiery red, before regaining composition and altering back to the self-prided pacifist.

Howard wasn't disturbed by the jolt in mood. After all, artists were moody people. He understood that better than anyone. "I mean… what would you have to… would you… have to… you know…" he blushed before mustering up the confidence to say the dreaded phrase, "…get inside me?"

"Not in the way the spirits do, no," replied the Soul, with a smirk that made it seem as if there was much more he wasn't saying.

"So… you'd simply make me a better artist?" Howard asked, finally letting himself feel a little bit at ease with the situation.

"I'd simply link your soul with your artwork," he corrected.

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning that what you paint will be a direct reflection of your true inner being. Your emotions, your desires… they'll be spilled out in a beautifully masqueraded format. It could make you famous. You could have your own gallery. I can see it now… 'Howard Moon, Art's 21st Century Gem.' Is that what you want?" His voice had again become low and enticing.

"Yes," Howard blurted out before he could stop himself.

The Soul of Art smiled, as if he'd known he could get Howard to agree, and offered him that old familiar clipboard and pen. "Sign here," he directed.

Howard gripped the writing utensil, but hesitated. "Nothing embarrassing, right?"

"You have my word."

He considered this a few moments longer before determinedly jotting his name on the appropriate line. When the clipboard was returned to him, the Soul snapped his fingers and vanished from sight, causing the light to flicker before the air calmed.

Howard sighed deeply and cautiously placed an empty canvas onto the easel, and then picked up a freshly sharpened pencil. Hovering it over the material, he was pleasantly alarmed to find that he didn't feel any different. He placed the lead tip down onto the canvas and instinctively drew a curved line. No change. Very unlike the Spirit of Jazz. Howard closed his eyes, half-believing he'd merely hallucinated the preceding events. But when he opened them again, he was overcome with a rush of what could only be described as creative energy.

Swelling with new-found confidence, Howard moved his pencil-bearing hand wildly about the canvas, not once stopping to think or check his work. It was impulse, pure arbitrariness, which invigorated him. He smiled and laughed with unmitigated bliss and light-heartedness as his seemingly random pencil strokes began to form a picture.

"Yes!" he shouted, trading the utensil for a paint brush. He wasn't sure if this was how the best artists created their masterpieces, but he didn't care. This is what he felt like doing, and Goddammit, no one was going to stop him. For the first time in his life, he felt truly powerful. Wielding nothing but art supplies, Howard could invent worlds and characters and emotions on top of nothingness, and the sense of omnipotence this revelation brought him surged through him like a raging storm. He was glad he hadn't snuck a hit or two of Naboo's hookah; this was a potent high all its own.

After what could have been anything from fifteen minutes to three hours, Howard stepped back, panting, to admire what he'd done. It was beautiful. He smiled broadly and jocundly laughed to himself at the image, although there was nothing humorous about it at all. Satisfied, he retired to the kitchen, made a cup of tea, and found himself utterly exhausted. For the first time in all of Vince's nightlife history, Howard crashed down on the couch and fell into a peaceful, solid sleep.

It wasn't that Howard didn't care. It was that instead of insomnia being the vessel for his worries and jealousy, his painting had taken over.

What he had created was almost Biblical on the surface. It consisted of two figures. One looked impoverished. He was hunched on the ground, and although he was startlingly beautiful, it was clear that wasn't the purport of his appearance in the work. Dark brown hair hung over his face, and his clothing was raggedy and of the same color. His small, loving eyes gazed upward, admiring the other figure, who, on the other hand, was radiant. He hung suspended in the sky with rays of brilliant light emanating from him. His dark hair blew majestically in the breeze, his piercing blue eyes shone, and his entire countenance exuded stability, happiness and confidence. He was garbed in shimmering golden robes and elaborate jewels. His right arm was extended downward toward the hunched figure, his index finger pointing at him almost accusatorily.

And in his left hand, a human heart was clutched.


	4. Disarm You With a Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys struggle to communicate, part 1.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Disarm' by The Smashing Pumpkins.

"Howard, what the hell happened last night?" Naboo's distinctive angered lisp woke the addressed man the following morning, hitting his ears with the impact of a nuclear weapon.

"What?" he returned groggily. The shaman's small form somehow managed to look threatening as he loomed over him, and the hard, unyielding stare that he fired only accentuated that. "Nothing happened," Howard amended, sitting upright on the couch. "I fell asleep."

"What'd ya go and do that for? I told you to look after Vince while we were gone!"

Howard remembered Naboo telling- no, ordering- him to closely watch Vince every time he and Bollo left for the past month or so, but the instructions never really meant much to him. It wasn't as if he needed to be told to care about the man. "Yeah, I know. Just calm down, alright, Naboo? Vince won't care that I fell asleep; he's fine without me breathing down his neck all the time."

This attempt at pacification did nothing to soften the shaman's visage. "There's so much you don't know about him, Howard," he said, his mind flashing back to the weeks spent trying to cope with a disconsolate Vince after Howard's abrupt departure to Denmark.

"Why? What happened?"

"Bollo and I found him passed out in the sodding bath tub, and he ain't wakin' up! Now get in there and do somethin'!"

Howard's face flushed with both confusion and worry as he wordlessly got up and made his way into the bathroom, Naboo following closely and resolutely behind. "Vince?" he asked, rather stupidly, as he entered the room.

"Move outta the way, yeah?" Naboo told Bollo, who was hovering worriedly over the bath and taking up a sizable amount of space in the already cramped room. The ape looked toward his flat mates, made a resentful grunt at Howard, and reluctantly maneuvered his way out of the area. "Go," the shaman then prompted, pushing Howard to where Bollo was previously stationed.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of Vince lying unconscious in what looked like a porcelain tomb. His perfect hair was matted, greasy and flat. His closed eyes rested above deep purple shadows. His beloved clothing was savagely torn, the dark shreds of which were trying desperately to cling to their owners limp form. Howard couldn't blame them. "Oh, Christ, Vince… what the hell happened to you?" he whispered.

Howard reached over to take hold of one icy hand, and, squeezing his eyes closed to blink back his overflowing remorse, gripped it so tightly he feared it might break. When he was able to bring himself back to harsh reality, he immediately turned on the showerhead, as cold as it could go. Naboo began to protest, but he was quieted when Vince's eyes jolted open, wide and fearful. Howard immediately shut off the water flow before crying, "Vince, you're alright!"

Naboo took a less sentimental approach. "You had us worried sick, you berk, what the hell game r'you playin' at? "

Vince coughed and sputtered up some of the water he was now drenched in. "I just-" he began, and then stopped himself as soon as he remembered Howard's presence. "What are you doin' here?" The question was frigid and unwelcoming.

Confused, Naboo replied for him. "You were passed out, he-"

"No; I know what I'm doing here," Vince interrupted angrily. His bitter armor was cracked, though, when he attempted to stand. His fragile body was wreaked with pain, causing him to cry out before his knees buckled. He would've crashed down upon the hard tile had Howard not lunged forward to hold him up.

"Naboo, could you… leave us alone for a bit?" Howard asked tentatively, his eyes silently pleading with the shaman who seemed to know more about their relationship than he did.

"Yeah, alright," he sighed, frustrated with the absence of an explanation from Vince, and retreated from the room.

"Alright, Vince," Howard began, still holding him up. "Let's get you out of there, okay?"

"I don't need your help."

"Vince, please-"

"I don't need your help, alright? I'm fine without you."

Howard rolled his eyes, annoyed by his friend's futile attempt at stoicism. "I don't believe you," he answered calmly. With that, he angled one arm around the smaller man, mustered up all the strength he could, and literally lifted him out of the bath, eliciting from him loud objections. When the extraction was successful, Howard kept an arm draped around Vince for support and used his other to grab a towel, which he tightly wrapped around his companion, who was shivering from his unexpected shower. "Better?" he asked.

Vince looked up at him, the anger mottled by obvious confliction. Why did Howard have to do this? Couldn't he see he was trying to hate him? When his eyes met Howard's, the concern and affection in them nearly caused him to collapse again.

"Hey. What's wrong, Little Man?"

That inquiry was it. His resolve melted, if only temporarily, and he couldn't act tough anymore. With any bit of strength he had left, he forcefully threw his arms around Howard's torso and buried his head into his chest.

Completely taken off guard, Howard awkwardly returned the hug, not sure that there was anything else to do at that point. "Hey now," he said, as soothingly as he could manage. "This isn't like you, Vince. What's going on?"

"I'm scared," muttered Vince, nearly inaudibly. He gripped the older man tighter. "Fuckin' scared," he repeated.

"Scared of what?" Howard asked, trying his best to keep his own fear out of his voice.

"Everything," Vince whispered, not willing himself to be any more specific than that.

Howard understood his reticence and didn't press the matter any further. "C'mon, now. It'll be alright. Whatever it is, I'm here for you. And we'll get through it together, okay?"

Vince hid the panic that this reassurance brought to him extremely well by focusing on trying to make the embrace last as long as possible.

"How 'bout this. You dry yourself off, I'll bring you in some new clothes and put the kettle on, then I'll put you to bed and you can sleep this whole mess off."

Vince could only nod against him.

Shades tightly fastened down to create the illusion of night, Vince lied in his bed, the covers wrapped closely around him, with Howard standing by his side, as promised. "H'ward?" he asked weakly.

"Yeah, Vince?"

"I… I'm sorry about what I said before. It's just that Leroy, he-"

"I might've known!" Howard said, louder than he'd intended to.

"…What?"

"Nothing. Just go to sleep, alright?"

"No," Vince protested, his voice growing stronger. "What'd you mean by that?"

"All I meant…" Howard paused, wondering how to get around this, but finding no way. "He just… he's always seemed to take advantage of you, that's all."

"Take advantage of me?" He felt himself begin to panic. Is that what Leroy did to him?

"I didn't mean it like that. It just seems as if he takes all the innocence in you to use toward himself, and… and I don't like the influence he has over you."

The resolute anger was back on Vince's countenance, clear as anything. "What the fuck are you getting at? I'm not some stupid kid, Howard! I can think for myself! What makes you assume I let him walk all over me?"

"All I was saying w-"

"'Cuz I'm not like you, is that it? Well, look who's so high an' mighty, stayin' in all the time while I go out and live my life! Isn't that the more adult thing to do?" He inwardly cringed at how cold he sounded; this is what Leroy wanted him to do, wasn't it? Howard was right.

Howard backed away from Vince's side, strangely afraid of his friend's new moodiness. "I didn't mean it like that," he tried to assuage. "I just worry about your nights out; look what happened to you! This isn't right."

"You ain't my father, Moon, so stop actin' like it!" Vince cried. "You're here tellin' me 'bout my 'innocence', when you're the most fuckin' virginal person I've ever met!" He laughed, more from his bubbling hysteria than from humor. "If I worry you so much, stay out of my life and get one of your own, yeah?"

Howard stared in what he hoped was a blank fashion, wounded by Vince's words. "Is that what you really want?" he asked, voice wavering against his efforts.

"Yeah! It is!"

"Fine then," Howard simply said, his tone finally firm. "Enjoy your rest." He began to move for the door, but stopped in front of Vince's easel. Something was… different.

"Well… go on, then," prompted Vince.

Howard looked at the painting intently. He'd almost forgotten about it, and took the time to thank whatever deity was out there that it hadn't been spotted when they'd moved into their room. Then he turned his undivided focus back to finding the difference in the image. His small eyes widened as he finally discovered it: the figure in the sky not only seemed happy and confident, but his face bore an outright smile. Not a cocky one, but a genuine one, adding to his ethereal beauty. And when Howard looked really close, he could see that the outline of the second figure was ever so slightly fainter than it had been before. He felt queasy, but grabbed the canvas and tried once more to make his way out.

"What's that?" asked Vince, his voice sounding cautious.

"It's nothing. Now if you'll excuse me…"

"I want to see it."

The uncertainty and childishness with which this was said brought Howard to a stop. He couldn't deny Vince. He hated himself for that. "It's just a painting I did, alright?"

"You paint now, too?"

Why didn't that sound mocking? He almost sounded… impressed. "It's nothing, Vince."

The younger man rolled his eyes and limped over to Howard, his hand extended. "Lemme see it."

"No, Vince. Just let me leave."

"Who's stoppin' you?" When this unintentionally deep question rendered Howard speechless, Vince utilized the pause and grabbed the canvas from him.

"Vince! I told you-"

"What… is this?" he asked, completely bewildered. His face was covered by a curtain of dark hair, shielding whatever emotions he had.

"It's nothing."

Vince couldn't tear his eyes from the image. Could Howard really paint like this? It looked like something that should be hanging up in a museum, not hidden away with shame in some flat atop a second-hand shop. "You didn't paint this…" he said, his voice faraway and small.

"Yeah, I did," Howard replied. "Now can you give it back?"

Still, Vince couldn't look away. It was quite obvious who the two figures were supposed to represent. Was that really how Howard saw them? As man-god and beggar? His admiration turned to agony as he saw what his artistic representative had clutched in his left hand. He was no whiz at symbolism, but the meaning behind this was all too clear. "Take it," Vince choked back, leaning his head further down to cover his effusively sorrowful face. "And don't ever let me see it again." He thrust the canvas out toward the artist.

Howard took back his painting and crossed the room to tenderly slide it beneath his bed. Had it really changed? He'd been in a trance while he'd created it; he didn't remember putting a smile on the angelic figure, but maybe he had without realizing. He was snapped out of his thoughts by the most horrible sound in the world, and immediately questioned it. "Vince… are you crying?"

"Get out! Since when did my feelings mean anything to you?"

If Howard hadn't left the room without his painting, he would've seen the enigmatic smile broaden just a tiny bit.


	5. Must Be a Devil Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leroy works some more mental magic.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Hey' by Pixies.

Oh, you've gotta be joking with me… Howard felt his insides lurch forward in a nausea-inspiring movement as he stepped past the threshold of their bedroom. Leroy was there, sitting on the couch with Naboo and Bollo.

"I don't know what happened, honest," he was saying to them. "I left him alone for a while, and then he disappeared. I figured he'd got lucky an' pulled, so I didn't think anythin' of it. Is he alright?"

"He's fine, thanks," Howard interjected, stepping fully into the living room. "He needs to rest up, so you'd best come back later."

Leroy ignored the second half of this statement and consulted Naboo. "D'ya think I could go in an' talk to him?"

No, no, no… Naboo, if you can read minds, this would be the best possible time for you to use that power…

"Yeah, I don't see why not. But if he's sleepin', you'll have to listen to Howard and come back later."

"Alright. Cheers, Naboo!"

Maybe Howard was being paranoid, but he could've sworn he saw Leroy challengingly narrow his eyes at him as he strode into their bedroom.

"So. Vexxia rang me, told me what happened. You feel any better?" Leroy was sitting beside Vince on his bed; the latter seemed shut down and huddled into himself, but the former pretended not to notice.

"Vexxia?" Vince asked. "Who's Vexxia?"

"The club owner!"

"Oh," Vince winced at the memory. "Right."

"She wanted me to apologize on her behalf," continued Leroy volubly. "I told you she was a bit crazy. She can get like that from time to time, but you had to expect that with someone like her, right?"

"I expected her to be a bit off; I didn't expect her to attack me and smash my head against the shower!"

"Look, she's sorry about that, alright? She can't control herself when she's coked up; it ain't her fault."

"Yeah," Vince said. "It's mine. I shouldn't have gone out last night."

"What? C'mon, Noir! What happened to our breakthrough?"

Vince looked down at his lap, embarrassed by the remembrance. "Howard says you're a bad influence on me," he blurted out.

Leroy laughed. "Oh, really now? And what'd you say to that?"

"That he'd gone wrong. That I ain't his kid."

"Good reply."

"Leroy," Vince started, "I don't think I can do this. Howard's so good to me, and it kills me to keep hurting him. Ain't there a better way of gettin' over him?"

"What else could you do?" he returned, in a lawyer-like fashion. "You live and work with the man. There's no other type of distance you can have." When Vince sighed gloomily, Leroy was suddenly stricken with an idea. "How would you like to have a date tonight?"

"Leroy, you're a great guy an' all, but-"

"Not with me, you berk! With a girl."

"Oh… well, that does change things. But no! I mean... even if I wanted to, look at me. I'm a mess; this ain't a way to impress someone! I'm in a right state."

Leroy smiled impishly. "What if it's a girl you already know?"

Vince tried to rack his brain for any idea as to whom Leroy might've been referring, but failed miserably. "Who?" he finally asked.

"Leave that to me."

"I dunno…"

Leroy placed an arm around Vince's shoulders and dragged him into a boyish half-embrace. "Trust me on this. After tonight, everything'll change."

As usual, Leroy's intuition was second to none.


	6. Half of It's Misunderstanding Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince goes on a blind date.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Fool' by Cat Power.

Eight o' clock that night found Vince Noir waiting nervously in the Nabootique, pacing from side to side, wrestling with nausea, guilt and the urge to run away. He didn't want to go on this date; he wasn't up for it physically or emotionally. And yet there he was, biding his time until his "carefully selected" woman of the evening came around the shop to meet him. Why? Because Leroy's manipulative chicanery had convinced him to. Although is it really manipulation if you know you're being manipulated?

In between uncharacteristically fidgety strides, Vince would throw a cautious glance toward the stairs, hoping to the higher powers-that-be that Howard would stay up there and not come down until after he had left, or, preferably, returned. He didn't plan on being out too late, and although he knew he was being ridiculous, he'd rather have his date in secrecy.

Vince was behind the front counter, leaning downward from the sudden pain in his chest, undoubtedly as a result of the previous night's violent fling with the Ferret Lady. He squeezed his eyes shut and balled up his fists in an attempt to hold back a sure-to-be-expelled stream of expletives, and wondered for the umpteenth time why he had agreed to go through with this. Then, in a quick realization that made a good portion of his head ache as well, he remembered why: Howard. He needed to move on, for the sake of his mental well being and their withering friendship. It always came back to Howard.

Tonight was definitely no exception; in fact, it came back to Howard even more so than Vince could have ever imagined. With the jingle of the overhead bell to signal her arrival, Vince opened his eyes, forced a smile, and attempted to stand upright to greet his date. But his smile instantaneously changed to a slack-jawed stare and the words seemed to get stuck in his vocal cords when he saw who it was. Mrs. Gideon.

Leroy had known about Howard's strange obsession with the head of the reptiles back in the Zooniverse days. Vince would let his jealousy of her slip out quite frequently in the midst of their drunken nights on the town, and although her name hadn't been so much as mentioned for nearly three years, neither of the friends had forgotten about her.

If Gideon's existence hadn't been so acerbically embedded into his mind, he probably wouldn't have recognized her. She definitely looked older, that was for sure. Not from wisdom- that was something she'd always seemed to have had- but from experience that made her look frailer. Despite this, her dark hair was thick, long and left down, and she wore a form-fitting black dress that, had it been on anyone else, would've left a very positive impression on Vince. But he wasn't impressed by her elegant beauty, nor was he embarrassed that he was wearing his typical Hey-Everyone-Look-At-Me! kind of outfit. He was just angered. Memories of neglect from their years at the zoo came screaming back at him full force, with the woman before him at the helm of each one. So this isn't just about getting over Howard. It's about getting back at him.

"Hello, Vince," she started with a sheepish smile, her distinctive accent doing nothing to help the memories.

Vince took the deepest breath he'd ever taken in his life, wondering if his lungs could even process all the air. "Alright, Gideon," he returned, flashing his own intended-to-be flirtatious grin. "Ready to go, then?"

Her smile widened, as if up until this point she hadn't believed that Vince would want anything to do with her. "Of course," she sighed.

Vince didn't understand. Here she was, this intelligent, sophisticated woman with panache and culture, reduced to a pile of helpless putty by four simple words. And upstairs was Howard, a man with whom she'd be much better suited, a man who hadn't inspired within her a fraction of that kind of emotion in the interim of an entire career. She was obviously more superficial than Howard had ever wanted to believe. And that, surprisingly, disgusted him. But, with acting skill that would've lit sparks of envy in every man in Hollywood, he walked to embrace her, plant a tender kiss on her cheek, and slip one arm into hers before they walked out of the shop together.

That was the very last thing that Howard had ever expected to see as he was sitting atop the roof, gazing below at the previously motionless darkness.

The plan was, since neither of them owned a vehicle nor minded doing so, for Vince & Gideon to walk to a restaurant a few blocks away. (Leroy had made the reservations.)

The mood was a tense one- for Vince, anyway. Gideon was getting too close for comfort- although in reality, she had just tightened her grip around their entwined arms- and he was feeling the impulse to yell, 'don't touch me!' At least if he'd done that, there would've been less silence. The two had absolutely nothing in common, and there was no way Gideon failed to notice. That had to have been why the first thing she'd said on their walk was intended to segue into reminiscing. "I have to be frank, Vince. I never would've expected that you would want to take me out." She sounded unsure, insecure. Very unlike herself.

"Really?" Vince asked, trying his best to sound surprised. "Why's that?"

"Well… I'd always been infatuated with you, you know," she continued, her voice very apprehensive. "But it was sort of the general consensus around the zoo that you were… well…" She turned to look at Vince, hoping he would've connected the dots and saved her from saying what she was about to. But he hadn't. "…Gay," she concluded.

"What?" This time he really was surprised.

"I can't remember much of it, honestly," Gideon said hurriedly, as if trying to console him, although this was truer than Vince could've comprehended at the time. "I can't remember much of anything… but I remember you." Her voice took an abrupt turn, almost saccharine in its obvious adoration.

"Yeah, yeah," Vince said distractedly. If words were visible, his would've been swatting hers away. "But why did you think I was… I mean, yeah, I guess I do dress like a ponce, like Howard always says, but-"

"Howard!" cried Gideon, as if that name filled some long-vacated position in her mind.

"Yeah, what about 'im?"

"Now, why does he sound so familiar?"

Oh, come on! She's still at this? "You worked with him for almost ten years, Gideon," Vince calmly replied, boiling on the inside. "Tall… very jazzy, looks like he stepped off a portal from the 70s… used to spy on you, write you well creepy poetry…" He could tell that none of this was registering with her. "Small eyes like a prawn?" he offered. This was usually the deal-breaker with people who were ignorant of Howard, but it went right over her head. Maybe this isn't just an act. Maybe she really doesn't remember him. But he had one last clue up his sparkly sleeve. "He lived with me in the keeper's hut?"

"Oh, yes, Howard, of course!" Gideon exclaimed, her recollection now crystal clear. "That's the one!"

"What do you mean, 'that's the one'?" Vince asked cautiously.

"We all kind of assumed that- now, don't get upset- but… it was a widely held belief at the zoo that you two were… you know…"

Vince wasn't upset. He wasn't anything. He was so used to people mistaking him for Howard's wife or boyfriend- or occasionally his "ugly girlfriend"- that it long lost its initial ability to make him feel a strange, beautiful sense of completion. "Oh," he simply said. "Right."

Gideon, noting his sudden monotone, asked, "Were you…?"

Vince abruptly stopped walking, causing her to brake with him. He took another deep breath, but, in a tone that revealed none of his wrenching feelings of rage, sorrow and rejection, replied, "Nah, it weren't like that. We were- are!- jus' real good friends, s'all."

"Oh!" Gideon cried, clearly relieved, as they started walking again. She pulled him even closer to her than she had before, not feeling him tense up uncomfortably. "Do you ever wish Bainbridge had kept the zoo?" she asked wistfully.

"Gideon," Vince addressed, confusedly. "Bainbridge didn't sell the place. We got shut down, remember? Too many violations, not enough money. …Or animals," he added with a heartfelt smile.

"Really?" she asked, genuinely bewildered by the news.

"You honestly don't remember?" Vince asked doubtfully. When a bemused shrug was his reply, he continued to attempt to jog her memory. "They had to put all the animals down. Naboo saved Bollo the gorilla for me, by doing some weird shamanistic magic that hid 'im… Howard tried to save Jack the fox by standing up to the officials, but he just ended up with a tranquilizer dart in the ass," Vince laughed at the memory. That was their last night at the keeper's hut, and it was spent with lots of nostalgia and emotion, naturally, but also a lot of 'Can you feel this? …How 'bout this?' on Vince's part, and equal amounts of, 'Just 'cuz I can't feel it doesn't mean you have permission to grope me!' on Howard's. Gideon's expression was blank as ever, so he continued. "Fossil got arrested, remember? He ran through the zoo naked shouting 'save the wild and furry caged people!', but it just made 'em wanna shut us down even more. And you… you tried to talk them into letting you keep one of the pythons, but…" Vince paused, suddenly emotional. Gideon had expostulated with the officials so pleadingly and passionately, but after the antics of Bob Fossil, they had no reason to take any of the employees seriously. They ignored her at first, until she'd really gotten under the skin of one of the guys. Her noble efforts to save her most beloved animal was rewarded with a sharp slap in the face and a few disparaging, sexist comments that caused the proud intellectual to shrink back in defeat. "You… surely you have to remember that, right?"

Gideon shook her head. They had stopped walking again, and pained emotion was clear in both of their eyes.

Vince sighed, realizing it was hopeless to get her to remember anything about the zoo that didn't involve her interacting with him. "Well… I wish it'd stayed open, if that answers your question," he eventually said.

She smiled weakly. "Me too, Vince. Me too. That's part of the reason I was so excited about tonight. I've missed you terribly, you know. Being around you and my reptiles every day… that was the most peace I've ever had. Then it was all put to an end, and… Vince, can I tell you something?"

"Of course," he said, his memories having filled him with a new admiration for her. "Anything."

She took a deep breath and stared intently into his eyes. "I wasn't just infatuated with you, Vince. I've been… in love."

Vince felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "In love?" he echoed hollowly. How could she be in love with him? "Gideon, you've gone wrong…"

"No, I mean it," she insisted.

"What about Howard?" he cried.

"Who?"

"For fuck's sake, Gideon!" Vince exclaimed, the admiration being eclipsed by aggressive frustration. "He used to worship you!"

"Vince, I would remember-"

"You don't remember anything!" He was finding it increasingly difficult to want to get back at Howard at this point. It was Gideon who'd put him in misery for years. Howard had given him nothing but good memories and friendship. "I know what love is. Love's what he had for you, what I- I mean, it's not what you've got for me! You read all these important books, you're well intelligent, Gideon, come on!"

The look on her face was one of unmitigated pain. "Vince, you can't question my feelings, okay? This is the only thing I've ever been sure of in my life; you can't just take this from me."

"How is it that you remember every little detail about me, but when it comes to Howard, you've got nothing! Huh? He was too good for you! I always thought that, always wanted to break him away from you, but I couldn't, 'cuz for some reason or another, he was dead set on you!" Shit, stop talking, Vince. This isn't supposed to happen! Where's the Sunshine Kid? His eyes hardened, the original disgust returning to them. Sunshine? It's night. There is no fucking sunshine. "Christ, Gideon, you're supposed to be an intellectual! How can you want me instead of Howard? You're just as shallow and up your own ass as everyone else in the world!"

"Vince," she started, sounding truly scared. "This isn't like you…"

"Yeah? Well, this is classic you, innit? Choosing to forget the facts an' what's important. Howard's important, alright? He's everything to me. And you… you're less than nothing." Vince couldn't believe the words were coming out of his mouth. He wasn't just being impulsive or emotional. He was being straight-up cruel. But he couldn't help himself. What was happening to him? First he blew up at Howard, now at Gideon. And they had both been simply expressing affection.

"Then… then why would you… why did you ask me out tonight?" Although the lighting wasn't at all bright outside, he could see she was blinking back tears.

"I didn't!" he cried, agitation making his voice crack yet again. "My mate Leroy set us up! I didn't even know I was goin' with you 'til you showed up in the shop!"

Gideon searched his face for any hint that he was lying, but found none. "I- I should go," she said, her tone thick with emotion.

"Yeah, now you're gettin' it!"

It wasn't watching her rush off helplessly into the night that filled Vince with discomfort. What horrified him was the fact that watching this made him smile.


	7. These Wrinkles Masterfully Disguise the Youthful Boy Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys struggle to communicate, part 2.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Brothers on a Hotel Bed' by Death Cab for Cutie.

Vince decided it'd be best if he didn't contact Leroy about the Gideon fiasco. He didn't need to be taken advantage of at this point. So, walking further along the sidewalk, he pulled out his phone and dialed the number of the only man with whom he needed to speak.

Howard picked up after the first ring. "Vince?" he answered. "Where are you? Are you alright? Do you need me to come get you?"

Vince sighed, disappointed and irritated. What would it take to convince him he wasn't a little kid anymore? "I'm fine, Small Eyes. Look, I wanted to know if you'd meet me at Farnaby's Bar." His tone was agitated, curt. But then again, so was his mood.

"Aren't you… on a date?" Howard couldn't bring himself to be any more specific than that.

"I don't think I'd be askin' you to join me if I were, yeah?"

"Alright," came Howard's response. There was a hesitation and then, "Vince?"

"Yeah?"

"How was Gideon?"

The tone in which this question was asked nearly ripped Vince apart. There was no anger or even envy. It was submissive and curious. "Just meet me there in ten, alright?"

It was more like fifteen minutes by the time both men were seated in one of the booths at Farnaby's with drinks in front of them. They were stuck in the rut of an intolerably uncomfortable silence, neither of them fully knowing the reason they were actually there. But silence was better than fighting, which was all they seemed to do lately.

Even so, Vince had to say something. "Howard, look… about that painting of yours…"

Howard's eyes darted around the room, looking at every seedy bar patron to avoid doing the same to the man beside him. That painting had been on his mind way too much this evening; after he'd seen Vince with Gideon, it had altered itself further. But this time, Howard had actually witnessed it changing. The angelic figure gained a halo while the derelict faded, becoming less and less important. And as Howard noticed this, he felt an unfamiliar sense of indifference spread over him. He should be furious- his best friend, the one he just so happened to be hopelessly in love with, getting off with his previous object of desire, was nothing to celebrate- but he wasn't. It just seemed to add to the congeries of reasons for him to hate himself; all of this was his fault. If Howard wasn't such a gauche nobody, Vince would be his and he would have the happiness that everyone else seemed to. But it didn't work that way for Howard Moon. No, sir. "Yeah? What about it?" he asked, all too defensively. "I happen to be an avid painter, Vince. One of the many things you don't know about me. I'm multi-talented in the ways of the arts, you see. They call me the Paint Prodigy."

"Oh, do they now?" Vince asked, amused despite himself. Even if Howard was straying from the conversation's intended path, he'd missed listening to his bullshit.

"They do, sir. If Naboo didn't rely so heavily on my skills as a salesman, you could bet your pretty little life that I'd be opening my own gallery. The Magisterial Masterpieces of Moon, the exhibit would be called."

"You'd have a whole exhibit for one painting, would you?"

"Well, it isn't about quantity in modern art. Today's connoisseur of art looks for the truth, the light, within a picture. People would pay top money to view my one painting, yes, indeedie. They'd line up through the streets to catch a glimpse, and their souls would fill to the brim with warmth as if a steaming cup of coffee were spilling over their-"

"Wait, through the streets? So this'd be an outdoor exhibit, then?"

"…Yes, yes it would, you see. The demand for viewing would be so high that a projector of monstrous ponderosity would be required to broadcast my work into the heavens above."

"Who'd pay to see that?" Vince laughed. "People could just look up!"

"Well, yes…" Howard conceded, sounding caught. "But that's why we'd get equally large curtains, hung down by overhead blimps. Only those inside the curtains could view the truth. Artistic enlightenment, a catharsis, if you will. I'll show the truth of the darker side of humanity in one image. Like a concise Goya."

"What, the food company?"

"No, like Francisco- doesn't matter."

"Howard," Vince began, suddenly determined to get back on track. "What exactly is the truth in that painting of yours?"

The older man visibly reddened and pulled at his turtleneck collar. "It's-"

"It's meant to be us, innit?"

"I… Vince, art isn't meant to be taken so literally. You can't just say things like that when every aspect is abstract and metaphorical."

"You mean like the way you made me grabbin' at your heart?" Vince asked bluntly. This was the kind of Howard Moon bullshit he couldn't stand.

"What now?"

"Oh, come on, Howard. I know you think I'm dense an' all that, but art's always been my thing, remember? An' no one can be that dense, anyway. You're a great painter, but you may wanna work at your code, 'cuz you're not as cryptic as you'd like to think."

Howard stared intently into his glass, as if his whiskey held the answer to every sublunary and heavenly question of man, and said nothing.

Vince sighed. The only way this was going to work was if one of them was upfront. And it sure as hell wasn't going to be the one who looked about ready to make love to his drink. "Howard, do you fancy me?" There. It had been asked. No retractions, no denials, no going back.

Howard forced out a laugh that sounded more like he was choking. "You, sir, are vainer than I had first assumed."

Okay. It was a simple yes or no question, but okay. "Whad'ya mean?"

"You… you just assume that because you're Vince Noir, everyone has to love you, don't you?"

Vince had to admit that he was close to being right. He assumed that because he was Vince Noir, everyone but the person who mattered had to love him. "No, Howard. It's because you painted me holdin' onto your heart."

Howard seemed to hyperventilate before he downed the remainder of his drink in one swig. "Yeah, well..." he began, as he toyed with his empty glass. The silence threatened to consume them again, so he asked, emotionlessly, "So how was she?" There was no need to give a name to the pronoun.

"Three years later, it's still all about her, innit?" asked Vince spitefully.

"I dunno, Vince. You tell me. You're the one who got off with her tonight, weren't you?"

"How easy do you think I am? Nothing happened, Howard. I swear."

Howard sighed heavily, defeated. "The least you could do is tell the truth. As if anyone could resist you, right?" Again, he sounded more submissive than angry. And this tore at Vince. That, along with Howard's assumption that Vince just had to have tried to get into Gideon's pants. Or dress. Whatever. He rose from the table with the languor of someone who'd had this entire conversation revealed to him ahead of time and thus found no reason to hear it again. "I'm gonna get goin', Vince. Thanks for the drink, yeah? See you back home."

'Run away, Howard, like you always do', Vince was so tempted to say. 'Man of action, my ass. The minute things get heavy, you run faster than the Cowardly Lion on amphetamines.' Instead, he stayed quiet and took a page from the Moon book of etiquette for awkward moments: he stared into his drink glass until Howard walked out.

Vince exhaled with such force he thought that he might tip the table over, and then took in a healthy dose of his Flirtini. Fuck this. He stood up, walked to the bar, and, waving the feminine drink, said to the tender, "Get me something stronger than this. A lot stronger." He was rewarded with Howard's drink of choice: whiskey. Although it seemed to scorch Vince's entire throat on the way down, it was undeniably powerful, and that's all he cared about.

It wasn't long before he began to flip through his phone, fondly looking at old pictures of the two of them from their various travels and adventures. What happened to them? He could feel tears well up in his eyes as he found a picture from their days in grade school in the midst his electronic album. He'd never tell Howard this, but he'd scanned and emailed said picture to his phone because it made him smile like nothing else in the world, and it was encouraging to know that when sadness overtook his heart- which was beginning to happen more often than ever before in the previously cheery life of Vince Noir- he could slide open his phone and be guaranteed a smile. It showed Howard, appearing about 16 years old, looking directly at the camera, shooting it a glance of a nonplussed nature, with Vince's 9-year old arm flung around his shoulder, his lips playfully pressed against the other boy's cheek, his free arm extended to take the picture. Vince laughed as he looked at the image, realizing that Howard hadn't been 16 years old in it at all. He'd been 10.

Vince would never forget how the two of them had met. It'd been at recess one afternoon in grade school… the same year that picture had been taken, actually. Howard was more or less an outcast, but one of those self-inflicted ones. He never once tried to fit in; he just accepted the fact that he didn't. It was a tacit rule of the educational social system that no one- repeat, no one- associated themselves with Howard Moon. And in case anyone forgot this, his overly-mature appearance was a reminder to everyone that he wasn't one of them. He was different. Vince was the exact opposite. A grade below Howard, Vince was one year younger and a million times more popular. Some things never change, eh? He had legions of myrmidons. It seemed everyone, regardless of grade, vied for his attention and acceptance, and he took it all casually, never once letting it get to his head. As Howard had always known he was a misfit, Vince had always known he was a leader. That's just the way it was.

Since Howard wasn't held up inside by any friends, he was always the first one out on the playground at recess. He would spend his time sitting on the bench in the corner, his face always buried in some thick novel that was far beyond the reading level of his respective class, doing his best to blend in with the scenery. Vince, on the other hand, would be the last one out and in the middle of everything, joining in the childish games of new kids every day, because everyone needed to have some contact with him.

But one day was different. Vince had run out and breathlessly sat beside Howard, who was already reading. If the latter noticed the presence of the former, he'd done nothing to let that show. Streams of kids began to filter out of the school doors, most looking for Vince. But the idea of him talking to Howard was so unthinkable that no one even looked to where he actually was. For that day, he was invisible.

_"You know," Vince said. "I've never talked to you before, but you're the only one in the whole school that I actually like."_

__

__

Howard sighed and placed his book down on his knee. "You don't need to do this, okay? I'm used to being alone, so you can run along now."

"No, I mean it," the younger boy assured. "You're the only one here I like."

"Why? Because I give you and your little cronies something to laugh about?"

Vince was confused. "No, Howard. Look at me," he said, gesturing to his uniform that had been meticulously customized, right down to the buttons. "I'm always tryna stand out an' look different. But they don't let me! They steal my ideas and never leave me alone. It's like they have contests to see who can be me best. So much for bein' different, right? Well, you're different and you don't even have to try. That's why I like you." He smiled, and then added, with an extension of his hand, "I'm Vince."

As if Howard didn't know who he was. But nevertheless, he tentatively shook the boy's offered hand.

Recess ended with Vince asking to go over Howard's house that afternoon, and the older boy found himself accepting the self-invitation. The two couldn't have been at more opposite ends of the spectrum, but their first walk home together seemed to establish all they needed to know to become best friends. "So, why are you always reading?" Vince asked.

Howard shrugged. "It lets me escape from school for a while."

"Mind if I take a look?" Vince pointed to the novel clutched under Howard's arm, and the older boy handed the object to him carefully. Vince thumbed through a few of the pages and promptly returned it to him. "You're smart," he simply stated.

"Why do you say that?"Howard asked, as if this were the first compliment he'd ever received. Maybe it was.

"'Cuz that's the same book my teacher's readin'. I took it out of her bag and it confused me then, too."

"You looked through Mrs. Wentworth's personal belongings?"

Vince shrugged. "She don't mind. Anyway, I know what your class is readin', and it ain't that. You just have to be different with everything, don't you?" This wasn't a taunting statement. It was one of admiration.

Now it was Howard who shrugged. "I just don't like people my age."

"Me neither," Vince agreed. "None of 'em have a mind of their own. An' none of 'em knew who Mick Jagger was 'til I told 'em. You know who he is, right?"This question was accompanied by a look of pure hopefulness in blue eyes so large they seemed to dominate his small face.

"Course I do," Howard answered. "He's awful."

"Awful?"

"All he does is whine and dance about provocatively."

"So who do you like, then?"

"Charlie Parker."

"Who?"

Howard stopped walking and shook his head in mock dismay. Even at their first meeting, Howard found it so easy to be himself. There was something about Vince that made him… comfortable. Happy, even. "Looks like I'll have some musical educating to do this afternoon. We'll start with the basics: a little piece called 'Bird of Paradise'. Alright, Little Man?"

"Great, more schooling," Vince laughed. "An' I ain't so little!"

__

__

Present day Vince smiled sorrowfully at the memory; it had been the birth of their friendship, his much beloved nickname and their lighthearted banter. Well… at least it'd stayed lighthearted until recently. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and wiped away more tears, trying not to smear his makeup, before downing more of the still-unfriendly hard liquor.

"Is this seat taken?"

The familiar voice behind him made Vince jump, and he turned halfway around to see who it was. "Harold?" he asked disbelievingly. "Harold Boon? What the hell are you doin' back here?"

"Woah, woah, easy now, Vince. I'm not tryin' to steal anythin' anymore, alright? Those days are over." Harold saw Vince's silence as a good sign and took his post at the empty barstool next to him. "Lance and I had a row, that's all."

"You two still talk? And you guys are still… in character?"

Harold shrugged, as if it were no big deal, and ordered himself a drink.

Vince, too, turned to the bartender and ordered another whiskey. He'd need it if he were going to deal with this kind of idiocy. "Well, what're you doin' back here?" His tone still wasn't very amiable.

"Wanted to come somewhere I remembered but that didn't remember me."

Vince shuddered. Harold was really good at sounding like… someone else.

So good, in fact, that an hour and multiple drinks later, they found themselves hand-in-hand, laughing and welling up, telling stories of their missing other halves. It surprised neither of them that they ended up touching much more than just hands by the end of the night.

"Hey… do you mind if I call you Howard?" Vince had asked.

"Not if you don't mind me calling you Lance."

Shockingly, he didn't mind. And not because he had any newfound admiration for Lance Dior. He still hated the bastard. It was that at this moment, he had more than a little hatred for himself, too. That, and he simply didn't feel like being Vince anymore. It'd be nice to lose his identity, if only for one night.


	8. Mr. Faded Glory is Once Again Doing Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince deals with the fallout of a really weird night.
> 
> Chapter title is from 'Crown of Thorns' by Mother Love Bone.

Vince blearily rubbed his eyes and sat up, trying desperately to gauge his surroundings. Nothing looked familiar, except for the body that was curled up, almost protectively, facing away from him on the other side of the bed they were in. Vince smiled, the inside of his chest swelling with emotion, his alcohol-fogged mind still not processing what had happened. Surely the man beside him was Howard, and when he woke up, they could piece together the missing links of the evening.

After giving the sleeping form a gentle kiss on his bare shoulder, Vince rolled over to grab his phone off the floor and check the time. It proudly displayed that it was 11 in the morning, along with 5 new voicemail messages. All from Howard. Staring at the phone in bewilderment, he keyed in his numerical code and listened to the messages that awaited him. "Hey, Vince… I know things didn't exactly go well tonight, but I want to talk. So… I'll see you, yeah?" Delete. Next. "Vince? It's pretty late. Can you call when you get the chance?" Delete. Next. "Vince? It's 3 o'clock in the bloody morning; where the hell are you?" That was all it took for Vince to drop his phone onto the scarcely carpeted floor.

Everything came screaming back to him. This wasn't Howard. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew…! Vince was almost to the point of shoving his fist in his mouth to prevent screaming his monosyllabic thoughts at full force. In a panicky jolt, the young man threw himself out of the grudgingly comfortable bed, vehemently rubbed his entire mouth with his hand in an erratic attempt to cleanse it, and retrieved his scattered clothes. He was out of the dreadful building- which turned out to be a very cheap motel- within five shaky minutes of getting up. A new record. But he had no time to be proud of that. He had to figure out where he was going and how he was going to face Howard.

Howard. He couldn't find out about this. Courting Mrs. Gideon was one thing, but hitting a home-run with Harold Boon? Vince tried to imagine how he'd feel if his Howard had gone off with Lance Dior- or any man, for that matter. He felt his heart and acidic bile rise to his throat, the latter having nothing to do with the staggering amount he had drank.

"Shit!" he cried, his phone's loud ringing waking him from his terrorized mindset. Fumbling to slide open the device, he answered frantically, "Alright?"

"Vince?" came the reply. It was Howard. Who else would it be? "Oh, thank God!" The relief in his voice nearly killed Vince. He didn't deserve him. "Where are you? I've been ringing you all night!"

Vince continued to pace hurriedly down the streets, illogically trying to escape the recollection of his consummated betrayal. "Yeah, I'm fine, alright?"

"Why didn't you return any of my calls?" Howard asked, his tone slightly scolding. "I've been up all night worried sick! I tried going out to look for you, but things-"

"I told you, Howard, I ain't yours to worry about!" Vince snapped, more focused on his lack of a solid destination than on Howard's words. "Contrary to popular belief, I ain't your wife, so you don't need to keep checkin' up on me!"

"Vince, I-"

Vince didn't want to hear it and slammed his phone shut, silencing the concerns of the other man. This was all down to Leroy. That's who he needed to see.

Howard stared down at his hands, now bruised, as was the entirety of both his forearms. He hadn't meant it to get that far. He had just wanted to find Vince, bring him back home, and tell him the truth. Yes, he did fancy him. Yes, his painting was representative of them and their erroneous inequality. But, as usual, nothing worked out for Howard Moon.

It'd been about 4 in the morning. That was the cut-off time for Vince Noir's all night extravaganzas. It always had been; by 4, Vince was either home, had left Howard a message, or had already informed the older man he'd be gone later than usual. This had never happened before, and Howard was scared. So he foolishly went out looking for his friend.

This hour, which signaled the end of the night yet not quite the beginning of the real morning- sort of the equivalent of the adolescence of a partier's day -was completely foreign to Howard, and home to all sorts of shady characters. So when an obnoxiously Cockney voice said, "Oi, Selleck! Come o'er 'ere," Howard was so out of wits that he'd obliged.

As usual, Naboo had come to the rescue. Howard had been pinned to a grimy brick wall in an unexplored alleyway, being beaten and threatened for money that he simply didn't have on him. And, in typical Moon fashion, he didn't stand up for himself. Although towering over the head Cockney and his three contrastingly quiet followers in stature, Howard was reduced to his life-pleading catch phrase after the first punch. And that had only riled them up further. Naboo heroically landed his carpet in the alley, diverting the miscreants' attention, and his familiar took matters from there. "Quick, Howard, get on!" the shaman cried. Howard didn't need telling twice.

"The hell is wrong with you, you muppet?" Naboo had asked on their flight back to the flat. "I went off to get somethin' to eat an' you'd disappeared from the couch! What happened to waiting for Vince?"

Howard shook his head in dismay. The things he put himself through for that insouciant, self-centered little ponce. Yet how many times had the little ponce risked his life to save him, the delusional, highhanded father figure? Christ, they were both beyond the means of fucked up. Since when had two wrongs ever made a right? Since that day on the school-yard, Howard sorrowfully thought, therapeutically gripping the steaming mug of tea in front of him.

He remembered vividly the first time he fully realized- or was it accepted? -that his feelings toward Vince weren't strictly friendly. He'd been 17, and Vince 16. The younger man had found a date to their high school's prestigious annual Christmas ball with a girl in Howard's grade, and had tried incessantly to get Howard to go, too. Every attempt at persuasion had a similar pattern.

_"C'mon, H'ward… what fun will it be if you're not there?"_

_"Honestly, Vince, you'd be the only one to notice my absence."_

_"That ain't true! Well… okay. Alright. But… ain't that enough?"_

_"To put myself through an evening of teenage idiocy, gloomy pop music and isolation? Nothing's worth that."_

_"But I'll be there! C'mon, Howard, it'll be genius. I'll find you a date and everything, and the four of us can all sit together and take loads of pictures and joke around. It'll be perfect! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease, Howard?"_

_Eventually, Vince had cracked Howard's obstinate armor, and the older boy had agreed to go. Vince had, indeed, found him a date; he'd convinced, with the help of some monetary bribery, who he considered to be the smartest, most mature girl in school to go with him. On the terms of a blind date to build his friend's anticipation, Howard arrived at the ball, expecting to meet the girl at their promised table for four. Only she never showed._

_Howard had scolded himself mercilessly for thinking even for a moment that a girl- a real, beautiful, intelligent girl- would want anything to do with him. Vince was inwardly doing the same; it was his fault that Howard was dealing with yet another rejection, wasn't it? Half the night had passed with Howard saying nothing, other than a few unconvincing but heeded encouragements that Vince should get up and have fun. And when Vince seemed to be doing just that, Howard would sit there, fiddle with the table cloth, and curse everything about the night under his breath. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. The DJ wasn't even playing anything that could qualify as music. It sounded more like Transformers getting frisky._

_"Howard…" Vince started when he'd snuck back to the table, leaving his date on the dance floor to gush on to her friends about what a gentleman Mr. Noir was. "M'so sorry. I never should've made you come."_

_"It's okay, Little Man," Howard said, looking emotionlessly down into his plastic cup. "It isn't your fault I'm such a loser now, is it?"_

_"Come on, Howard," Vince said, sitting beside him. "You're not a loser."_

_"Just stop it, Vince, okay?" pleaded Howard, snapping his face up to meet the younger boy's. "Stop trying to make me sociable or well-liked or any of the things that you are, because it's not gonna happen. This isn't my thing. I should be left alone, because that's clearly the only time I can do anything right."_

_"I'm not tryna make you into anything," Vince replied earnestly. "I just wanted you here tonight. You're still the only one in school I actually like, Howard," he added, as if it were obvious._

_"Coulda fooled me," Howard muttered as Vince's date approached him. A ballad had commenced, and she wanted a dance. After all, that's why they were there, wasn't it?_

_Vince looked torn, but allowed himself to be pulled up by the girl. "I'll be right back, okay? I promise, Howard."_

_Watching Vince get led away from him, Howard felt something hit the pit of his stomach. This wasn't fair. When he was sure his friend wasn't looking at him, he wordlessly got up and stalked out the back exit of the event room. As the fresh, cold, winter air hit his lungs, he didn't feel the relief he expected to. He felt enraged. And not at Vince, or at the idiots who disregarded him, or at the superficial society. Only at himself._

_Howard laughed bitterly, almost insanely, as he looked down at his body. He was wearing a suit and his hair had actually been combed through and slicked back. Why did he make that effort tonight? As if emancipating himself from his fashionable peers, Howard aggressively threw the expensive, rented suit jacket onto the lightly snow-coated ground before doing the same to his tie. Seemingly on cue so as to not pass up the fact that he was no longer wearing a jacket, a meager shower of snow began to fall._

_"Couldn't let that go, could you?" Howard shouted up at the sky, to the god that he was already losing faith in. "Gotta utilize every opportunity presented to make Howard TJ Moon as uncomfortable as possible? It ain't enough that you gave me a blowhard dad, it ain't enough that you took my fucking mother from me, no, sir! You've gotta take all the little opportunities, too!"_

_"Howard?"_

_The boy in question jerked his head toward the direction from which the voice had come. It was Vince, standing cautiously on the steps of the exit, watching his friend with wide eyes. "I was wondering where you'd gone off to…" He slowly made his way over to Howard, whose features were contorted with anger and self pity._

_Vince bent down to pick up Howard's discarded garments and brushed the snow off of them. "What'd you go and do that for?" he chided softly. "It's flippin' December." With that, he stuffed the tie into the jacket pocket and draped the second layer over Howard's shoulders. Smiling assuredly, Vince said, "There ya go. You look well handsome. Did I mention that?"_

_"Don't patronize me…" Howard warned, feeding his arms into the sleeves of the jacket._

_"I'm not," Vince calmly replied. "It's true. Any girl'd be lucky to have you, you know that, right? You're not all polished up, but it's a good thing. Sexily disheveled, I think you'd be called."_

_Howard sighed, letting his anger subside. In a rare moment of vulnerability, he asked, "It's never going to get any better for me, is it?"_

_"There, there, Howard," Vince consoled, pulling him into an embrace that the older boy surprisingly accepted. "You're gonna be just fine. Ain't you ever heard of karma?"_

_Howard simply tightened his grip around him in reply, not risking screwing up the moment by speaking. Why did this feel so right?_

_"I'll tell ya what. We'll leave right now, and we'll do anything you wanna do. We can grab coffee, we can go see a movie, we can go toss eggs at your date's house… we can even go back to your place and spend the night listening to your jazz records. Whatever you want. Sound good?"_

_"Where's your date?" Howard asked, still not breaking the embrace._

_"Inside. She thinks I came out for a smoke."_

_"Won't she wonder where you went?"_

_"Yeah," Vince replied. "But who cares? She's got the attention span of a moth, that one. She'll be fine. Besides," he said, with an unmistakable upward inflection. "I'm more of a girlfriend to you than she was to me, right?"_

_Howard couldn't help but laugh at Vince's attempt to lighten the situation, before realizing how truthfully the joke rang. "Right," he said._

_"So," Vince continued, pulling away from the increasingly amorous hug only to slip his arm through Howard's. "Take your girlfriend somewhere nice, 'cos he's freaking freezin' out here." ___

__Howard frowned and snapped back into the present, the lines on his mature face creasing. The contrast between that line and Vince's most recent outburst through the phone was unbearable. He'd take a vicious beating from a band of Cockneys over that kind of pain any day._ _

__"Oi, Howard!" came Naboo's voice, snapping him out of his nostalgic reverie._ _

__"What is it, Naboo?" he exhaustedly answered, wincing at the discomfort in his neck as he looked behind him._ _

__"Just got a call from Leroy. Said Vince is headed over there. Thought you should know, so you can finally get some sleep. You look a right mess."_ _

__Howard sighed. "Cheers, Naboo."_ _

__If that was supposed to ease Howard's mind into sleep, it sure as hell wasn't working._ _


	9. Pretend I'm Free to Roam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince confronts Leroy.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Indifference' by Pearl Jam.

"What the fuck are you getting at, Leroy?" Vince screamed as soon as he was let into his friend's flat. "Settin' me up with Mrs. Gideon? Are you tryna kill me here?"

Leroy sighed and nonchalantly plopped himself down on his couch, which took up the majority of the living area in his shoddy, one bedroom-er. "She really likes you, Vince. I thought it'd be nice for you to get out with someone who'd actually give you some meaningful affection. Is that so bad?"

"Yes!" he cried, stopping- only momentarily- his restless pacing around the room. "It's awful!"

"Is it 'cuz of what the papers said? 'Cuz really, Vince, we can't be sure that was anythin' to do with you."

"What? What bleedin' papers? Christy, Leroy, you know damn well why! And ya wanna know what the fuck happened later on?"

Leroy became unusually serious, looking up at the ever-in-motion Vince with sad, darkened eyes. "You haven't heard? I read this morning that-"

"I ain't got the patience for stories, Leroy!" snapped the other man frantically. "Listen to me! Last night I got bloody pissed off my tits and jumped into bed with Harold flippin' Boon! Remember that knob-head? Well, he came back, and 'cuz of you, I-"

"Vince!"

"What?"

"Frankly, I could give two fucks about what happened with you and Harold Boon. You got some backdoor action and you know I ain't gonna feel guilty about that. What I'm tryna tell you is that last night, Gideon was put into hospital."

Vince's previously baleful expression fell, and he slowly slid onto the carpeted floor, in front of where Leroy was sat. "What…?" he asked, his voice like that of a child who'd been reprimanded by a parent.

Leroy sighed heavily and invited Vince to sit beside him; this invitation was accepted, and then he trudged on with the explanation. "She was staggerin' about all night and wound up hit by a car. The driver says she walked in front of him, but that could be debatable. She's in critical condition now, but that's all the article said. They're havin' a hard time keepin' her under wraps, since she's already on a heavy regiment of meds for her sickness and they don't want her system to-"

"What sickness?" asked Vince, completely confused.

"Rare early onset dementia. Come on, you had to have known that," Leroy replied, almost laughing at the obviousness. When Vince didn't seem to share the humor, he turned off his own. "Shit off, Noir. You worked with her for all that time and you didn't know?"

Vince looked as if he were going to hyperventilate. "This is my fault," he stated. He wasn't looking to be told otherwise, or even to be consoled; he was promulgating his guilt because he knew it was true. "I said all these horrible things to her… an' I didn't know, Leroy, honest. If I'd known she'd been sick, I never would've… I yelled at her for not rememberin' anything. Who the fuck does that to someone with dementia?" He let out a rancorous snicker before cradling his face in his hands. "I always hated her, thinkin' she was jus' ignorant, like everyone back at school used to be, but… oh, God, Leroy. She told me I was the only solid thing in her life, an' that she loved me… She loved me, for fuck's sake! An' now… look what I made her do!"

"C'mon, Vince. It couldn't have all been you," Leroy said, draping his arm around the man. "She was obviously unstable and sick. This could very well be completely unrelated. And we don't even know if she did it on purpose, so don't get all dramatic until we know everything, alright?"

Vince pushed his arm off of his shoulders and glared at him with disgust. "How can you be so calm about this? It was me, and you know it. If I hadn't said-"

"But how good did it feel to finally say all that?" Leroy interrupted, with a dangerous glint in his nearly black eyes.

"Yeah, okay," Vince conceded. "It felt good at the time, when I thought I was standing up for Howard, but now that I see the weight of the words, it's feeling everything but good!"

Leroy exhaled, madly frustrated. "As if that matters. Look. You don't love her. You don't even like her. All that ties you to her now is pity… or sympathy, whatever. So this guilt you're feeling… it ain't even about her well-being, is it? It's strictly about your involvement. And that's pretty selfish, actually."

Vince's face warped at the confliction he was being hit with. "S'not just that," he began weakly. "I'm hurting innocent people jus' by sayin' what's on my mind. What if I screw up and send Howard over the edge like this? Oh, God…" His voice rose in pitch, a whole new sense of panic spreading. "I couldn't live with myself if I ever did that."

This time, Leroy did laugh. "Seriously? Even if Howard wanted to, we both know he'd be too scared to go through with it. He's safe."

"It isn't funny," Vince defended with that same childish tone.

"No, you're right," Leroy said, with a mock-surrendering gesture of his hands. "It's not funny. But I mean it when I say you shouldn't feel badly about speaking your mind and doing what makes you happy. Can you listen to me for a bit and promise not to interrupt?"

Vince nodded obediently, his head hung downward with his barely concealed shame. Don't listen to him. No matter what he says, don't listen.

"Look at you. Seriously, come with me and look at yourself," he started, just before grabbing Vince by the limp arm and leading him to a mirror hung on the opposite wall. He nudged the man's face upward, forcing him to gaze at his reflection. "You're beautiful. And I don't mean that in a homo way; I just mean it. You're beautiful. It's a fact. Why would you waste that?

"So many people sit around crippled by their insecurities, and as much as they want to make it sound deeper than it is, nine times outta ten, it'll result from the physical. What they look like. We live in a shallow society, Vince. You and I know that more than anyone, and I'm realistic enough to admit to my place in it. These people have been rejected by the shallows so long that anything social will scare them off. Yeah, it's their history that renders them awkward and distant, but what's it a result of? People like us pushing them away, because they look different. Is it morally right of us to do so? No, I should think not. But we do it anyway, 'cuz that's our role. Just as being alone and insecure is theirs.

"I know what you're thinkin', and lemme stop you right there, okay? You're thinking that we should sympathize with the insecure ones, because it's usually our fault- whether it's from rejection or mental comparison or whatever- that they've gotten to this state. Well, we can't take all the blame, 'cuz they're at fault, too. They should be much more resilient. Like Howard. Gideon turns him down, and what does he do? Gets depressed, stalks her around and ultimately takes it out on himself. What would any sane person do? Have some drinks and within a few weeks find someone new to pine after. And don't you say it's 'cuz he was in love with her, or that he's always been socially retarded, okay? Because you used to tell me all the time that he wasn't really in love. You said the two of them had never had a single decent conversation.

"These insecure people are passive aggressive. They like to blame everyone else for the reduction of their confidence and public failures, but really, they're as much at fault as their so-called persecutors. Now, Vince. Look at you. You're born with the natural beauty and assurance that all these people would kill to have. Why should you give up what makes you happy, just 'cuz they're too self-absorbed to go after what makes them feel that way? Why would you take all you have and throw it out?

"You worked in a zoo; you know about habitats and all that biological stuff concerning animals. Well, people are the same way. We all have our own niche. Howard, for instance… he's a completely different species than you. Was he born with your striking beauty? No. Your charisma? No. But he was born with intellect. Let's face it, Vince. Neither of us are exactly Rhodes Scholars, and we know that. Howard is somethin' else, though. You used to tell me all the time. He was talkin' about politics and reading the likes of Plato when we… well, when we were still playing with Play-Doh. And for all that intelligence, where is he now? Workin' in some dingy shop, all his literary talent and smarts left for dead. He rejected his niche for God-knows-what reason, and now he's miserable. Ah, well. He made his bed and has to sleep in it.

"You, on the other hand… you're clearly born for Hedonism. You can get away with whatever you want, 'cuz society is too dense to see past your pretty face. Your niche is the best of all, Vince. Your niche is you. Do you wanna be like your precious Howard and throw it all away? His intellect seems to have dulled from inactivity. That's unfortunate. And your beauty ain't gonna last forever. Use it to your advantage before it's too late. Before you're left as miserable as your little husband-"

"He's not my husband!" Vince exclaimed, his voice hoarse from the drying of his throat, jerking around violently to face Leroy. "Don't fucking call him that," he added, his breathing unnaturally strained.

"Ah," smiled Leroy. "Now we're getting somewhere."


	10. Is This Blood on My Hands All for You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soul of Art offers some advice.
> 
> Chapter title from 'You' by Candlebox.

It's strange how different the magnitude of an event can be from the vessel by which it's delivered to its audience. Never was this statement truer than the following morning, when Howard, still worrying about the ostensible desertion of Vince, read the day's newspaper. The tiny side-article was brief, to the point, laconic:

'Veronica Gideon, the victim of Saturday evening's car accident, died last night under intensive care in hospital. The 34-year old woman walked in front of the vehicle in an apparent suicide attempt for reasons unknown.'

Two sentences. That was Mrs. Gideon's big send-off. Two measly sentences on the side-column of one of the back-pages in the newspaper. The media cared much more for celebrity babies than it did for the loss of a noble, irreplaceable life.

Howard could do nothing but stare at the words. The black ink danced upon its off-white stage, the pernicious phrases melding together until they evanesced into absolute nothingness. At first it seemed a cruel joke or a sick dream. Then, he painfully realized, in order for the adjectives 'cruel' or 'sick' to be apt, he should be suffering. But he wasn't. The news of Mrs. Gideon's death left him as numb as it did surprised. Hadn't he once dubbed this woman his "soul mate"… hadn't he at one point referred to their getting together as "inevitable"? She was gone. Inevitable was cut short. His old desire was ruined, and he was positive that his true love had had something to do with it. Vince's refusal to discuss her, his date abruptly ending, his current absence… their night out clearly hadn't gone according to plan. Vince had been telling the truth when he'd said that nothing had happened between them. Howard felt unbearably ashamed when he realized that Saturday's conversation with Vince at the bar made him feel sicker than the fact that Veronica Gideon was dead.

He folded the paper back up and pushed himself gracelessly away from the table, no longer possessing the appetite for breakfast. All Howard wanted to do was get on back to sleep and hopefully wake up with his sudden headache weakened substantially. But of course that wasn't going to happen.

When he entered his bedroom, he was too shocked to even twist the ever reddened skin on his arm. His strange painting was resting on top of his pillow, propped up by the headboard; Howard knew he'd been storing it underneath his bed. He warily walked toward it, not at all unafraid, and examined the differences since the last time he'd seen it. His own figure seemed nothing more than a beige outline on the ornate backdrop… but, if a very close look was taken by someone incredibly shrewd and patient, the faint image of a face could still be seen.

Vince's figure, naturally, was the exact opposite. His outline had darkened and his visage had brightened. The accuracy with which his blinding smile appeared across his face made Howard feel even more nauseous. Above the heart he was clutching was a nearly invisibly dim outline of something that the artist couldn't quite discern.

Howard had to have been going crazy. Paintings didn't just alter themselves on their own volition. He had to have been hallucinating… unless he'd been painting in his sleep? Unlikely story. But a hell of a lot more feasible than the alternative.

An unhealthy amount of time was spent sitting beside the painting, studying it. It didn't change under his gaze. Surely it would have had he been hallucinating. 'That's it,' he finally decided. 'I'll just paint over the damn thing.'

That was the plan, anyway. The canvas was securely resting on Vince's easel. The paintbrush had been submerged in exactly the right mix of colors. Its thick tip now hovered above the artwork… and was, with a little hesitation, guided across. But the paint didn't come off the brush. Howard furrowed his brow in confusion and slid the brush tip quickly across the desk; this time, it worked. Yet when it was returned to the canvas, it wouldn't cooperate.

"Having trouble?"

Howard let out a very un-man-of-action-ly shriek and wheeled around, his utensil flying up in the air as he did so. It landed on the floor with an anticlimactic thud, staining Vince's lime green shag carpet with a touch of nutmeg.

"It's only me, you paranoid stronzo," said the Soul of Art. "Who else do you know with an authentic Italian accent?"

"You… I want nothing more to do with you!" cried Howard, not allowing himself to calm down in the least. "Take the painting; it's more yours than mine!"

"Oh, Howard. Tell me, what have I done to merit such antipathy?"

The Soul's stolid tone only angered Howard further. "I'm takin' it you're the one who keeps changing the image, yeah? Well, it's not amusing anymore, so take it back! Take the changes back, take the painting back, take my abilities back- I don't care, just leave me alone."

Dark brown eyes filled with a condescendingly false brand of solicitude stared back at him behind that non-prescription, thick-rimmed pair of glasses. "Don't be so hasty to jump to conclusions. I warned you, didn't I? I told you that whatever you painted would be a direct reflection of your soul and your desires."

"That… doesn't… make… any… flipping sense!" exclaimed Howard, nearly bursting at the seams with frustration.

"Yes, it does." The Soul of Art elegantly moved to Howard's side, and leaned over his shoulder to point to the painting. "See?" he asked, calling attention to Vince's figure. "That's it."

"What's it?"

"Vince. You had to have noticed the pattern. Every time he did something horribly insensitive, the picture would change. He became more beautiful. You became less recognizable."

Now Howard was really confused. "Again, you're not making any sense. If anything, shouldn't he have become less-" he struggled over the next word, but said it anyway- "beautiful with every rotten thing he did?"

"Ideally," replied the Soul, shrugging and shoving his hands into the pockets of his smock. "But you work differently from the typical human. This reflects your soul, remember?"

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because," he began, as even as before, "this is how you perceive things. Whenever something bad happens to you, you blame yourself. Let's think back. When Vince took out Gideon, you weren't upset with either of them. You weren't even jealous. You just sat back and beat yourself up, refusing to blame either of them for having no interest in you, because you don't, either. Or back at that ball that you were thinking of before. Your date stood you up, and who were you angry at? Yourself. You refuse to think that Vince can do anything wrong, because you see that as your job. So, each time he mistreated you, you saw him as an even more perfect being, and you saw yourself as even more lowly because you deserved it. And, voila, we've cracked the code of your painting."

Howard gaped at him for a few silent moments before saying, "I… do not do that. I'm a self-respecting man, yes sir, and I- don't touch me!"

His speech was cut short by the Soul of Art grabbing his wrist. He rolled up the man's sleeve, baring Howard's Chinese-burn laden skin. "Really? Maybe you English show things differently, but this doesn't look much like self respect to me."

Howard jerked his arm away and defensively rolled his sleeve back down. "That doesn't prove anything."

The Soul let out a complacent laugh. "Yes, it does! Okay, look, Howard. You love Vince, right?"

"Well- I… I care for… I mean…"

"Yes, you do. You can't lie to me, Moon. I've been inside that mind of yours ever since we first met, and I know all you've thought of in that time. So admit it. You're in love with Vince."

Howard stared at him, indignantly at first, and then his glare fell into defeat. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"So, if you want to be with him as long as possible, I suggest you change your way of thinking. Your inferiority complex has been killing you forever, but since you painted that picture, it's been doing so in a much more literal way."

"What do you mean?"

The Soul rolled his eyes, exhausted of explanations. "You and the picture are linked. When you disappear from the canvas, your soul disappears from the earth and goes into my possession. I shouldn't even be telling you this, but… I've grown to like you, Moon, and I figured you deserved a fair chance. Do not let yourself fade away. See that?"

He was pointing the faint outline above the heart in Vince's hand, and Howard nodded as if in a trance.

"As the last strokes of your outline disappear, that object will become more prominent. It's a knife. Once it's stabbed through your heart, the process is complete."

"Process?" whimpered Howard, staring fearfully at the artwork. "My death is… a process to you?"

The Soul sighed heavily. "No, that's not it. This whole thing is a process… why do you think I chose to appear to you? You needed this wakeup call."

"Wakeup call?" echoed Howard, turning to face the confusing man-soul-thing beside him. "This isn't a wakeup call; this is a death sentence! You're killing me!"

The blue streaks in the Soul's hair changed to red as anger overcame him. "I am not!" he screamed, effectively silencing Howard's protests into weak snivels. He regained his composure and said, "This is all you. If you weren't so damn insecure, if you learned to appreciate yourself the way Vince appreciates you, if you learned to stop wasting your life away on self-inflicted misery, you wouldn't have this problem."

"But… I can't… I can't die," began Howard, completely missing the moral. "I've got too much to give, and… and…"

"Oh, shut up," interrupted the Soul of Art. "You won't die if you can snap yourself out of this."

"You expect me to be able to change an entire lifetime's way of thinking in… what, a day?"

"Yes. Well, the few other people who have had this experience had longer, because they noticed what was happening earlier… and no one has ever disintegrated this quickly. The Spirit of Jazz told me you were delusional, but Christ, I never imagined you'd be this bad."

Howard sat down and slumped over in the chair in front of the desk, trying to accept the fact that he'd soon be dead. And what did he have? No best-selling novel with his name on the cover. No BAFTA for his performances in avant-garde cinema. No platinum jazz record.

"Oh, don't go wandering down your mental Trail of Tears," jeered the Soul of Art, still lodged in Howard's thoughts. "I've just told you you have the chance to save yourself, and you're plotting your demise and inwardly crying about missed accomplishments. Your fate isn't sealed! Howard, think of how Vince would feel if he found you dead. If not for yourself, hang in for him."

"Vince?" he asked. "Vince wouldn't care anymore. He's got Leroy now."

"You are so oblivious, Moon…" muttered the Soul. "You really think that? You think Leroy's your replacement? You're completely hopeless if you truly believe that."

Howard showed no reaction to this, and simply began peeling paint off of the desk.

The Soul sighed. "I can't keep this up all day. You're the most miserable person I've ever worked with- and I work with artists, so that's saying something. You aren't even angry! I've had people try to kill me after realizing what they've been roped into; you're just accepting it!"

"Yeah? Well, because you've made me think. Vince wouldn't care. So what do I have to live for?"

"Y'know what? If you keep this up, I'm going to make you watch Vince's reaction to your death. Alright? And then when he inevitably overdoses or drinks himself to his own grave as a result, you guys won't be part of the same afterlife, because your soul is mine and I won't allow it."

"Better that way," Howard murmured, too wrapped up in himself to fully hear what it was saying. "I don't deserve him, anyhow."

"Okay. If you're going to be weak and give up, then I'll see you again soon. Or if you want to accept the fact that you aren't a complete failure and that you are worth being cared about, I'll be pleasantly surprised and I'll let you go forever. You make the choice."

Howard looked up at him, the previous listlessness in his eyes having been converted to excruciatingly visible sorrow. "How… how can I change?"

"That's for you to discover. But, if I may… can I suggest something?"

Howard nodded, too weakened by the revelation to do anything else.

"To paraphrase Charlotte Brontë, it is madness in all men to let a secret love kindle within them which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it." The Soul of Art looked at him smugly once more, as if expecting a hearty congratulation for having the ability to quote classic literature.

All he got, though, was a, "And how is that going to help me, exactly?"

"Romance, pain and delusion go hand in hand, especially when the love is so deeply hidden…"

"Can you just be direct for once, please?"

"Tell Vince how you feel. At the point you're at, it's your fastest option for recovery. I know he loves you. In fact, everyone but you knows."

Before Howard could protest, the Soul of Art had disappeared, leaving him alone and in agonizing silence.

He stared at the painting; he didn't want to die. But do I deserve to? Without a doubt. Howard snapped himself out of that self deprecating mindset as he realized that it was exactly the type of thinking that had landed him on this fast track to the end in the first place.

Soon, he directed his focus onto the land-line phone that was also situated on the desk. Without thinking, he dialed Vince's number and hoped for the best. When voicemail answered, he wasted no time in spewing out his feelings in a quick, concise blast; it wasn't until the phone was firmly back on its cradle that he realized the weight of what he had just confessed.


	11. I'm Standing on Trial and It's Painted on Canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince checks his voicemail.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Ashamed' by Deer Tick.

Vince Noir stretched his arms out as he awakened that morning, to encircle one of his pale limbs around the anonymous woman whose bleach-blonde head was seeking rest upon his chest. Well, anonymous wasn't the right word. He could've sworn her name was Jane. Or Jen. Or Janice. There was definitely a J and an N involved somewhere in the equation. Ah, well. No matter. Vince and the J-woman were currently sprawled out amidst a pile of thin blankets on the uncomfortable floor of Leroy's flat. The owner of the dwelling was only a few feet from them with an equally attractive woman curled up against his side.

Vince smiled, quite genuinely, as he looked at his surroundings. He couldn't remember much of the previous night. He'd drank like a goldfish, and Leroy had definitely slipped a few things in whatever liquids he'd downed. It was all to help Vince "down his natural road to happiness"- or whatever hippie bullshit he'd coughed up at the time- and it had worked. Vince hadn't thought of Howard or Gideon or anyone else but himself all night. But now it was morning, and he needed to stop thinking before his simple train of thought left the station without him.

He stared with interest at the many plastic cups strewn about the room, and picked up the one nearest to him. After examining its questionable contents half-heartedly, Vince shrugged and drank it all back with impressive speed. He threw the cup back amongst the others and tried to cozy himself into sleep. Whatever he'd imbibed would surely be coursing its way through his system by the time he'd awaken.

Just as he was nodding off, however, that cursed phone of his decided to blare its loathsome electro anthem. "Shit!" Vince frantically felt around for the device with his free arm in a desperate attempt to silence it and keep everyone unconscious, but it was far too loud and abrasive a song for that. His three companions were already stirring, and as soon as they were awake, the ringing ceased.

"Fuckin' 'ell, Vince," came the groggy voice of the woman beside him. "Ain't you ever hearda silent mode?"

He laughed apologetically and convinced them all to get back to sleep; but once his advice had been taken, the dreaded ringtone sounded again.

"Christ al-fuckin'-mighty!" cried the J-woman. She lifted herself off of Vince's chest and grabbed his phone from the couch behind them. "Second ring, and for a bleedin' voicemail," she announced as she checked the screen. "As if that's worth it."

"Oi, Janine," called Leroy, still lying down. "Who's it from?"

"Some… Howard bloke," she answered confusedly. "Howard? Ain't that a bit of an old geezer's name?"

Vince smiled outwardly, and searched around for another cup near him with something still in it. He let out a sigh of relief as he found one, and chugged its contents without so much as a first glance.

"Toss it over here," said Leroy, now sitting up with his woman.

"No, really, Leroy, let's not bother," protested Vince, trying to lighten his objection with a barely believable chuckle.

Janine looked between the two men for a few moments, but eventually threw the phone to the one further from her. Leroy placed the device up to his ear, and then glanced down, on cue from the robotic Woman of Voicemails. "Vince, what's your passcode?"

"Leroy, really-"

"Howard?" interrupted the still unnamed woman. "Ain't that the guy who works down in the shop with you? The really weird one, with the shifty eyes?"

"Yeah, that's 'im. Leroy, please-"

"I'm in!" he interjected. "You might wanna think of a less obvious passcode, mate." Leroy said this with a very condescending, disappointed look; it didn't take long to figure out the code would be the numerical value of Howard's birthday.

"Put it on speaker," ordered Janine. "Whatever this one's gonna say has gotta be a right laugh."

Vince stared at Leroy with wide eyes, silently begging him not to do so. The last thing he needed was to have these two women hearing Howard's constant worrying. Leroy ignored Vince, though, and very rebelliously pressed the speakerphone key.

"Alright, Vince," sounded the voice of a seemingly rushed Howard. The man at whom this message was directed waited with bated breath, as if expecting to receive news of the end of the world, and hoped Janine couldn't feel him lightly sweating.

"I'm gonna say this quick, before I lose my nerve as per usual. I'm a complete tit-trap. What you said Saturday at Farnaby's was 100% correct. I do fancy you. I always have. It goes beyond that, really. I love you. I'm in love with you. I don't know what exactly I'm expecting to achieve by telling you this- maybe that you'll come home- but I thought you deserved to know. I've been going through hell here and I have a whole lot more to tell you, but… I couldn't keep this particular bit in any longer. I love you. Erm… bye."

Vince stared slack jawed at the tiny electronic device within Leroy's hand. The universe had definitely stopped, if only for a minute. Of all the things he'd expected that voicemail to say, a declaration of love was certainly not among them. The universal pause abruptly ended, though, with the horribly mocking cachinnation from the two girls and somehow masculine giggling from Leroy.

"What… the fuck was that about?" Janine asked when she was able to compose herself.

Vince made a big production out of shrugging and looking clueless. "No idea," he said. "Must be pissed."

"Ol' Howard's a drinker, is he?" inquired the other woman, sounding impressed.

"Oh yeah," continued Vince. "Big drinker. Always gets a bit overly affectionate when he's pissed. Ain't nothin' unusual."

Leroy shot him a glare nearly dripping with skepticism and scorn before tossing his phone back to him. "Know what'd be well funny?" he asked.

"What?" replied Vince through gritted teeth.

"If you phoned him back right now."

Those seven words were like a starter pistol to the entire room. "Oh, come on, Vince, do it!" pleaded Janine. "You could always put 'im on with me. Bet he's never been rung up by a real woman before."

Vince looked nervously down at his phone. Maybe it was whatever potent poison he'd drank down, or maybe it was his irrational need to please that caused him to call Howard, the first contact on his speed dial. Whatever the motive, he did it. But he made sure to take off speakerphone.

"Vince?" was the urgent answer on the other end.

"Alright, Howard?"

"You… you got my message, then?"

"Yeah, I… I got it."

Vince looked around the room nervously as silence hung between him and the man on the opposite phone line. The unnamed woman broke the lull in conversation by crying out, "Ask 'im if he's pissed! An' if he is, see if he'll join us, cuz that'd be a right laugh."

"Who's that?" Howard asked.

"'Just… forget about that," Vince replied, anxious laughter hitching up into his voice.

"Awww, Vincey, did he propose?" teased Janine, throwing her still intoxicated arms around his bare shoulders.

"Are you with someone, Vince? And… did… did she…"

Vince didn't get to hear the end of that question, as Janine stole his phone from him and supplied her own colorful commentary. "Yeah, Howard, is it? M'names Janine. Where's Vince?" She laughed, and then continued. "He's at his best mate's. Spent the whole night shaggin' the life outta me. Make ya jealous, does it?" She handed the device over to the man beside her with a cackle and announced, "He cut you off."

"What'd he say?" asked Vince, beginning to feel the effects of the enigmatic drugs he'd previously taken within the confines of equally enigmatic beverages. They weren't making him happy or forgetful or tired. He was just dazed and very inattentive, and was beginning to hallucinate. That, coupled with the preceding, unforgivably allowed abuse of his love, left him feeling impossibly empty and scared.

Janine shrugged casually as Leroy and the other woman began to go at it again. "Jus' stammered, mostly."

Vince fell silent, escaping the pain this would've undoubtedly caused him by focusing on how unreal everything seemed. The outlines of bodies and objects appeared hazy. Colors blended together, spun around and projected fearful images, making it all too easy not to focus on the terrible woman next to him. His blue eyes darkened as they stared intently at the air, in which imaginary butterflies began having their wings torn off, sending them plummeting to their deaths; his ears roared as Howard's name rushed into them from no one in particular; his entire body felt as if it were shaking, although in reality he was motionless. In this mentally and emotionally disheveled state, he couldn't at first feel Janine's physical advances toward him, nor did he have the strength or concentration to fight them off when he did.

Across town, Howard Moon stared fixedly at his possessed work of art.


	12. Total Confusion- Disillusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince listens to music.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Through My Sails' by Neil Young.

It felt like no time at all to Vince. There he was, having a great time with Jeanie or whatever the hell her name was, and all of a sudden, for no discernible reason, he was being slapped in the face. If that had been the extent of it, Vince could've recovered nicely and played it off as her being kinky. But she'd pushed him as well, and then Leroy was barreling over toward him. Before he knew it, he was standing out in the hallway, hastily throwing on his clothes, having been pushed out by the owner of the flat. Vince could see the unnamed girl holding back the other as Leroy closed the door, leaving the two men alone on the outside.

"Okay," he began, trying to stay calm as possible. "What in Lucifer's sweet hell was that?"

Vince let out something in between an exhale and a laugh, completely misconstruing his words. "I dunno! She just flipped shit on me; I don't understand!"

Leroy stared at him with narrowed eyes. "What? You really have no idea what just went on?"

"I've gotta be honest, I lost all focus after…" Vince's voice trailed off thoughtfully as a pang of regret cut through his strange high.

"Yeah. That's what I thought. What about the progress we made? Huh? What about your niche?"

"Before you go bangin' on about stuff again, can you please tell me what I'm bein' penalized for?" Vince asked, distraught.

"Alright, that's fair," agreed Leroy. "Tell me, what's that girl's name you were with?"

Vince's face scrunched up into an almost Billy Idol-esque sneer, struggling in vain to remember. "Janet?" he ventured.

"No, but even that was closer than what you've been callin' her all bloody morning."

A few silent moments passed before the words crashed down on Vince, whose eyes shot wide open in horror. "No… Leroy, I didn't… please, please tell me I didn't…"

"You did," he confirmed. "Janine is absolutely gorgeous. She's feminine, she's sexy, she's fun… why the fuck would you call her Howard?"

"How many times did I do it?"

"A bloody lot, Vince! She didn't hear you the first few times, but- oh, God…" Leroy's voice hit a downward stride and then cracked, as if realizing something horrible. "You weren't… you weren't pretending it was him, were you?"

Vince looked down at his feet, his hair coming down around his face like a black, impenetrable barrier. "I just… I wished it was him," he answered, in a voice so uncharacteristically small and fragile it made Leroy do a double take.

"I don't know why I ever tried to help you," he eventually said. "You're way too far gone. How can you give this carefree lifestyle up? It's you, Vince; it's-"

"No, Leroy," interrupted Vince, his voice growing stronger. "It's not much to give up."

"Well, you'd better piss off, then."

"You're really sendin' me off?"

"What'd you think I've been gettin' at?"

Vince looked up at Leroy, his countenance completely pained. "Why don't you send the girls off instead?"

"And miss my chance?" Leroy scoffed. "While you're gone, I'm gonna try my luck at a three-way."

Vince flinched, thinking of all the times he'd said something to that effect to Howard when he had struck out. "Please, Leroy," he pleaded. "I've got nowhere to go…"

"Don't bullshit me, Noir; you can nip off back to your precious Howard."

"He ain't gonna wanna see me after all that!"

Leroy laughed. "Are you kidding me? The man worships you. It'll be like the fuckin' Prodigal Son. Wait, no. The fuckin' Prodigal… Gay Lover? You know what I'm gettin' at."

"I can't keep takin' advantage of him; please, just for a few hours so I ca-"

"Piss off, mate." With that, he disappeared back into his flat and cried a hearty "laters!" from behind the closed door.

Vince sighed and dug his iPod out of his jacket pocket, hurriedly burying the headphones into his ears. He could always turn to the likes of Mick Jagger when the rest of the world refused to empathize; Mick always took Vince's side. Today was a little different, though. When Vince was dejectedly trudging out of Leroy's building and into the cold streets, Mick's voice brought tears to his eyes.

_"Childhood living is easy to do; the things you wanted, I bought them for you..." ___

__As much as it hurt, Vince refused to change the song. It was very much the anthem of Howard's stupid, inveterate loyalty._ _

__How had they gotten to this point, anyway? It seemed like a lifetime ago that they were Howard & Vince, the unlikely tag-team. Now they were Howard, depressed loner, and Vince, reckless partier. There was definitely no way to track their degeneration, or to even find anyone to wholly blame it on. The fault was both of theirs. Years of unspoken feelings, unjustified fears and petty jealousies threw them too far off course._ _

_"I watched you suffer a dull, aching pain; now you've decided to show me the same." ___

____Vince remembered the day after the zoo was shut down. They'd been illegally sneaking into their hut after closing time every night for years, neither of them having anywhere else to stay and neither of them ever really taking the initiative to find a place. They'd had each other, and so they'd slowly converted their location of employment into home. It wasn't surprising that when that home was taken from them, Vince fell into his first real fit of depression. Having to live without the animals, without everything he'd become familiar with… without Howard… it was too much for him._ _ _ _

____The first week after the zoo's closing was spent in a daze. Vince saw nothing of his best friend; he was too preoccupied trying to get as inebriated as possible while finding the cheapest motels available to crash at to answer his constant calls. It wasn't until eight days later that they talked. Howard had called to tell him that Naboo went freelance and asked for them, personally, to live with him in his new flat. (This, unbeknownst to Vince, was a lie. Howard was equally as lost on his own, and had tracked down Naboo with the idea of renting out a vacant office space as a shop. The shaman had seen through the seemingly entrepreneurial suggestion and asked, "You just wanna live with Vince again, yeah?" Howard had stammered like an idiot until Naboo silenced him with a, "I'll see what I can do.")_ _ _ _

____When Howard had left for Denmark to work with that pretentious director, Vince's separation anxiety had been much worse. He firmly believed that Howard would never come back, and since his music career was clearly not working out the way he'd always hoped, he concluded that he had nothing to live for. So he'd returned to his vices of drugs and alcohol, only this time, Leroy was there to encourage him. Was that what this whole thing was about? Punishing Howard for leaving him again? He was only following his dreams, and it wasn't as if he could have had any way of knowing just how much his absence would hurt Vince._ _ _ _

_"No sweeping exits or off-stage lines could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind." ___

______That sentence did Vince in. As soon as it was sung, he crumbled up against the nearest brick wall, let out a loud sob, and fell onto the ground. "Whadya lookin' at?" he began to scream as more and more passersby stared. "Go on, keep walkin'!"_ _ _ _ _ _

_"Wild horses couldn't drag me away; wild, wild horses, we'll ride them someday." ___

________The final line of the song- the one line tainted with the most sorrowful tinge of optimism- stopped Vince's crying. What was he doing? Howard loved him. Instead of wasting away the confession in his violent come-down, he should be trying his best to rectify the situation. Remaining sat against the wall, he pulled out his phone, tore out an ear-bud, and hit his speed dial._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Each ring on the other line made him more and more impatient, and the sound of it going to voicemail did nothing to help his sanity. But he wasn't going to misuse this phone call. "Howard?" he cried frantically. "I'm so sorry about before. I didn't put her up to that, alright? It was Leroy. You were right about him; you're right about everything, okay? I have a million apologies I've gotta make, and I'll make 'em all in person, I swear… I swear on Jagger and Numan and Bowie and everythin' else. I'll be gettin' straight home to you as soon as I figure out where the hell I am, and you'd better be there, because I need to see you as soon as possible. I love you, too, Howard, I always have and I always will." He took a deep breath and hung up, praying to every deity out there that Howard would listen to the message._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________That's the annoying thing about prayers, though. They like to go unanswered._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	13. Then Take Away My Self Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard is on trial for his life.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Soul to Squeeze' by Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Howard was stuck in emotional limbo. He could sit and stare at that painting all day long and not have a single clue where he was headed. Until he'd gotten that agonizing, taunting phone call from Vince and his… whatever she was to him, he never realized it was possible to feel so much pain. To have had his hopes built up, to have gambled with his feelings, only to be let down- no, that wasn't strong enough; only to be pushed down, run over and backed up on by a twisted eighteen wheeler- by Vince Noir, his world, was something he knew he would never recover from. So why wasn't the painting changing?

It wasn't as if the canvas had stagnated; no, sir. His masterpiece looked like a TV with spotty reception; his outline and that of the prophesized knife would flicker back and forth, as if deciding whether or not they wanted to be part of the distressing scenery. The fact that they didn't automatically appear was confusing enough to Howard, but what was even worse was that he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted them to. He'd allowed himself to feel his first smidgen of anger toward Vince; no matter how repulsive his offer was to the younger man, it did not call for such cruelty. Nothing did. Yet the rage didn't stop there. It was directed toward the Soul of Art for having lied to him, and, of course, at himself. It wasn't evenly divided, either. The disgust he was feeling for his own imprudent actions was definitely in first place.

The flickering did begin to slow down, though. And as the outline of the knife became more pronounced and more visible for longer, Howard felt unmistakably weaker. What did he have to fight for, though? Vince didn't love him- didn't even like him, apparently- and no one else bothered to notice his sorry existence. He'd been stuck in this self-loathing rut since childhood, and there was no way he was ever getting out. Not now. Laughing bitterly to himself, he imagined what Vince would have engraved on his tombstone: 'Howard Moon: bummed goats for bus tickets.'

What would be so wrong with dying? It was the only thing that could do away with the drudgery of his life, with his constant and increasing despondence. Plus, he knew what his afterlife held for him; he'd be with the Soul of Art, probably made into a little artist's caddy. At least then he'd be somewhat useful to someone.

"Come on and take me, then," Howard muttered in a somewhat hoarse voice. He stood up from the stool at the desk to make his way over to his bed; he would go out in a dignified, comfortable position. No one would know what happened, and that's the way he wanted it. Why bother to leave a legacy at this point? But all of this diffidence and resentment had deteriorated him too greatly for even that. As soon as he'd taken his first two shaky steps, Howard collapsed onto the floor. The end of his life certainly wasn't going to be the end of his struggles. He was Howard Moon, man of misfortune.

"Howard?" cried Vince, as he barreled into the Nabootique. "Howard?" His tone changed from desperate to bemused when he noticed the shop's emptiness. It was a week day afternoon. Vince had cut out work, sure, but that's what he did. Howard would never disregard his responsibilities. Maybe Naboo had given him the day off... Vince shook his head at the improbability of that theory. That was completely against Naboo's character. Unless Howard was in such a state that he was rendered useless. This idea hit Vince with a certain level of guilt, and he shot up the stairs as quickly as his agile form would take him.

The flat seemed deathly silent, and Vince began to wonder whether or not Howard was even there. But where else would he be? He'd called him from their landline phone, hadn't he? The living and kitchen areas were devoid of life, and so he had no choice but to fight against the denial in his mind and check their bedroom.

"Howard?" he asked, cautiously. The lights were out… all but the small lamp on his desk. Examining this, he couldn't help but notice the painting. Howard had clearly taken himself out of the picture, and Vince was very troubled by this. What was more troubling was how pleased his own figure looked, how confident and happy and at peace he seemed without him. He also saw that the dark outline of a knife appeared and disappeared languidly in the heart he was gripping. But he played that off as a lingering effect of the drugs.

As Vince was studying the image, he began to hear things. Disturbing, horrible things which only increased in their sickening nature when he realized he wasn't hallucinating them. There was shallow, fighting breathing coming from below him, and when Vince gathered enough sense to look down, he was brought to his knees by the sight of Howard lying on the floor, dangerously pale, struggling to breathe, his eyes cinched shut in pain. He was shivering against the air, and his cold sweat did nothing to help. "Howard?" exclaimed Vince, edging himself closer. "What the fuck is going on? What's wrong, Howard, you look awful!"

Howard managed to crack open one eye in response, to look at the concerned, frightened, preternaturally gorgeous face looming above him.

"Howard?" he repeated, the hysteria in his voice growing, making it rise in pitch and crack pitifully. "Talk to me, you beautiful fuckin' freak!" A few more strained gasps from the older man made Vince give up his attempts at explanation. Instead, he looked frenetically around the room for a clue. Finding none, he pulled out his trusty cell phone and informed, "Howard, I'm gonna call an ambulance, alright?"

"No," Howard managed to throatily gasp out.

"Whaddya mean, 'no'? You're writhin' about like a deranged trout on land, an' I ain't gonna let you hurt anymore, Moon!"

Howard would've sighed if he'd had the ability. How could Vince possibly understand that an ambulance wasn't going to save him? He simply shook his head, confirming the previous 'no'; and, seeing the inexorable torment on Vince's face, all anger at the younger man subsided.

"I mean, how the hell am I supposed to save you?" he continued, tears now unashamedly spilling over. "That's always how it goes, innit? We get ourselves into some strange situation, save the other, we laugh it off and repeat?" His words began to slur in his panicked, loving haste, his intonation violently inconstant.

Howard forced his eyes open to stare up at Vince, both hoping and fearing that his tear-stained face would be the last thing he'd ever see. Instead of wasting his increasingly valuable breath, Howard grabbed at the other man's sleeve, the only sign of affection he could muster.

"This is a joke, yeah?" Vince proceeded. "You're just… to get me back? I don't blame you, Howard, I don't. You've every right to be disgusted with me- I'm disgusted with me- and I can't ever justify what I've- Howard!" This last call of his name was unintentional, and only came about when his eyes began to slip shut once more. "Stop it! I don't care, I'm calling the ambulance, you need help an'-"

"No," Howard managed to interrupt.

"But… but I have to save you!" Vince awkwardly tried to gather Howard into his arms, but their completely opposite physical statures wouldn't allow it. Adding a new bout of frustration to an already disconsolate Vince, he shouted, "How the hell can I save you if you're not putting in any effort?"

Not putting in any effort. Of course he wasn't. He was dying of a supernatural curse put on him by an insane hipster. What hospital could save him from that?

Without thinking, Vince lowered himself fully onto the floor and viciously forced his lips onto Howard's. It wasn't a romantic act, nor was it clumsy, exploratory, or even passionate; the only movement Vince's mouth really made was the occasional tremble that came with hopeless weeping. It was as if he was trying to preserve what was in front of him by stilling the moment; and, after feeling first-hand how cold and drained Howard really was, it became an act of protection.

When Vince realized Howard needed to breathe as much as he could, he abruptly pulled himself away, but remained leaned over so that their faces were mere inches apart. "Please," he begged, in a voice infinitely smaller than before, "don't leave me again."

Howard could do nothing but gape in utter confusion, the pain he was in being temporarily dulled by the feeling. He wasn't sure what to make of what had just happened. Why did people always wait until they were dying to truly live?

Finding comfort in those familiar blue eyes, Howard pointed to the easel on the desk, suddenly struck with an idea. One that would at least supply Vince with an explanation.

"What?" Vince asked. "The painting?"

Howard nodded as eagerly as he could, and choked out pitifully and slowly, "With the brush."

Vince tried to lay aside his vexation, and did so well enough to retrieve for Howard the requested items. When the older man began to run the paintbrush over the canvas, Vince wanted to cry out in the pain of Howard's seeming indifference. But this was precluded by the effect of the peculiar action; in a gallant entrance, the Soul of Art appeared suddenly by their sides.

"Oh, Howard Moon," he greeted piteously, looking over his struggling form.

"Who are you?" asked Vince, sounding genuinely fearful.

"I," he began, with an imperious glide of his arm, "am the Soul of Art. Your friend here signed his soul away to me, and it's time for him to pay up."

"What?" squeaked Vince incredulously. "Howard, you didn't… you wouldn't, not after what happened last time!"

The man in question closed his eyes voluntarily, not wanting to see the cutting disappointment in Vince's mournful countenance.

"This is nothing like last time," the spirit scoffed. "I'm no sadist, Vincent Noir. Howard's own soul was spilled out on that canvas there-" he pointed to the painting that was now on the floor beside them- "and each time he fell into his pits of self blame and hatred and harm, he disappeared more and more, in life as well as on canvas. Now he's on his last stand. You've no one to blame but Howard, you see. This week's been hectic for him, but-"

"You're not takin' him," Vince interrupted resolutely, grabbing Howard's discouragingly limp hand and squeezing it. "You can't."

The Soul of Art rolled his eyes and, with a swift motion of one of his own brushes, produced the contract out of thin air. "I beg to differ."

"Oh, fuck the contract!" exclaimed Vince wildly. "Ya think Howard knew what he was gettin' himself into? He never does!"

"Listen-"

"No, you listen! You ain't takin' him without me. I don't care if you've got some contract, 'cuz if his soul belongs to you, then so does mine. We're one being, Moon and I, and our souls are linked up in every way except your stupid paper."

Howard stared at his friend, taken aback by the depth of thought present in his words. Vince was right, wasn't he? Unexpectedly, the words from earlier came back to him… If not for yourself, hang in for Vince. "I don't wanna die…" he moaned feebly, still convulsing with impending lifelessness. This was said to himself, but it attracted the full attention of the other two in the room. They stopped their bickering and turned to stare at him.

"What'd you say, Moon?" asked the Soul of Art, with a hint of boredom in his voice.

"I…" he began, before losing his breath. Howard struggled to regain his ability to communicate, and continued. "I don't… wanna die."

The tears that had been paused by Vince's sudden resolute anger were played by this pathetic statement. Howard was always putting on such a front, always pretending to be the big man. Obviously he'd known it was all a charade. They'd found themselves in enough life-threatening situations for Vince to be shown the man of action's true cowardly colors. But it was still such a shock to see him so weakened… and worse yet, so accepting of said weakness.

"You don't want to? And why not, Howard?" the soul pressed. "I swear, if you say it's because you've got so much to give, I'll sell you over to the Spirit of Jazz again!" he added threateningly.

"Whaddya askin' 'im questions for?" Vince cried. "Look at 'im, 'e can't even speak!" Although these protests were directed at the Soul of Art, the younger man's flooded eyes refused to leave Howard's face.

The soul sighed wearily and waved yet another paintbrush. When he returned the artistic tool to his smock, Howard gasped and jerked his body upright, panting heavily to regain his breath. "Before you guys plot some escape attempt, this is only temporary," he cautioned. "You're lucky I feel such sympathy for you, Howard. I'm giving you a chance to plead your case."

"Plead my case?" Howard echoed, in between attempts at getting air flowing within him.

"Yes; do I really have to explain everything to you? You humans are so dense…" The Soul of Art stood and began pacing, as if trying to reenact some cheesy scene from an American courtroom drama. "If you're so suddenly filled with the will to live… convince me. Persuade me to spare you. And you're going to have to do better than 'for Vince', because that proves nothing."

"I… I don't have anything prepared," said Howard. "Maybe… you could come back next Thursday, and we can have a proper hearing. Are you free then?"

"I don't have to give you a hearing at all, never mind a proper one."

Howard looked at him, somehow feeling even more helpless than when he had been thrashing on the floor not minutes earlier. "I… can you… give me some time?"

"Just speak your mind."

When it was obvious that the Soul of Art was not going to give into any of Howard's petty filibusters, Vince squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Come on, Howard. You can do this, yeah? Just… just improvise." With a weak, faltering smile, he added, "Ain't that what you told me all those jazz gimmers do?"

Not needing the distraction, Howard pulled his hand away and tried to concentrate. "I can't die," he started. "It's… it's not my time."

Vince buried his head in his hands, trying to stop more tears from escaping. Howard was a goner.

"I… okay. I wasn't… I've never exactly had it easy, yeah? My mother died when I was young, and my father wasn't… much of a father. I used the means of the arts- music, books, film- to keep my thoughts at bay. It was a classic case of broken family, where the child thinks he's responsible for the current state of affairs, and whenever I began to really think… I just couldn't quite cope. So I immersed myself in the arts and my imagination eventually took over.

"And then… I met Vince," Howard said this with more hesitation and pain in his voice than in the last few sentences; he didn't know where he was going with this, but he knew it was relevant. "Vince was the only person who ever paid attention to me. He made me feel worth something for once, and it's still that way. No one else really knows who I am. Can you blame me for hanging everything on the only thing of value I've got in my life? Maybe you can.

"I was surprised when I heard about Vince's early childhood. I'd expected him to have had a perfect, loving family, but it was far from it. He had it worse than I did. Yet he was this sunny, optimistic… beam of light, with no hint of darkness about him. I marveled at that. Still do. I'd always been a bit jealous of Vince's overpowering charisma and luck, but it was then that I realized he deserved it for being so strong. I, on the other hand, deserved all the alienation and misfortune that I'm constantly doled out. The outcome of one's life, in my opinion, weighs heavily on an individual's ability to make something out of nothing. I've always done the opposite."

Vince looked up at Howard, filled with that old familiar admiration and wonder. There was his philosophical friend. When he allowed himself to speak unfiltered, his eloquence was very moving. Hope began to invade Vince's mind.

Howard sighed heavily, as if in preparation, and the two others waited. "It… it was no surprise that my feelings toward Vince eventually… escalated. How could they not, really? But as time went by, the initial feeling of wholeness and substance that such strong love had brought me faded when I realized I was doomed to be bereft. I shouldn't have expected him to return my feelings, and then I'd cursed myself for having harbored such presumptuous thoughts in the first place. If I'd just looked at the facts, I never would've raised my hopes even the slightest, and the disappointment wouldn't have been so crushing when I realized the truth. The one time I'd allowed myself to be positive resulted in bitter pain.

"When I finally left my home to work full-time at the zoo, it shouldn't have been a shock that the management and staff all treated me with the same neglect I'd grown accustomed to from my school-mates and my family. Things only started looking up when I'd secured a job for Vince there, as well. He was adored by the very people- and animals, believe it or not- who'd been scorning me. Of course this raised jealousy. But my opinions on our varying karmas remained, keeping my envy as leveled as possible.

"So maybe you won't like my saying this, but I know I've gotten myself into this deep grave of negativity," Howard said, his tone decidedly stronger, to the Soul of Art. "It's the truth. I could've tried being more positive, but where would that have gotten me? To a state of more disappointment? That's not something I needed. So while my own pessimism and diffidence got me to this point, it wasn't completely unjustified. I've been dealt a pretty bad hand of cards, and yes, I should've at least tried to turn that around. But I didn't; I was used to misery, and, in the midst of changing environments and feelings, I clung desperately to the only sense of familiarity I had left, as damaging as it was.

"I hate to admit this, but you've succeeded in giving me a wakeup call, as you called it. I truly don't want to die. So maybe I'm not happy- maybe it's too late for me to ever be. But that's okay, because when I was lyin' there, dying in the most undignified way possible, I was genuinely happy to be alive, and that's something.

"It'd be unnatural for me to become a copy of the Sunshine Kid. If that's what you've been trying to make me into, you might as well take me now. But if you'd be content with me making an effort to better myself, then that'll work. I've finally realized I need to recognize the albeit few blessings I've actually got in this life instead of lamenting the fact that they may not be up to the level that I'd like them to be.

"So I'm now in your hands," Howard concluded. When this was responded to by silence, he then added, characteristically awkwardly, "I'm out of things to say."

Vince continued to stare up at him from his seat on the floor, absolutely amazed and saddened by his confessions. The Soul of Art noticed this, and said, "I'm finding this current scene very ironic. Here's Vince, on a low spot on the hard floor, disheveled from crying, not aware of his appearance, looking up admiringly at Howard, who's standing confidently and defiantly in the aftershock of his words. Reminds me a lot of your painting there, Moon, but the roles are reversed."

Howard stammered a bit, losing the cool he'd somehow managed to gain. Ah, well. He'd been self-assured for a few minutes, and that was certainly an accomplishment for him.

"Never mind that," snapped Vince, lacking any of the patience requisite in dealing with this smug, hipster-tool. "What are you gonna do with Howard?"

The Soul of Art seemed in deep contemplation for a while, increasing the tension in both other parties. "I won't take you now," he finally said, addressing Howard. "But I'm not going to leave you alone. I can tell your reserve is strong at the moment, and you were completely honest during your speech. But after a while, the strength brought from fear may fade, and this wasn't mean to be a temporary lesson. If you drastically regress, I'll be back. But for now… for now, I'll say you've won me over."

The relief that flooded both men was indescribable, but the shock was even more so. Utilizing their silence, the Soul of Art decided to make his exit. "Start being honest with each other, alright? It'll make my job a hell of a lot easier," he warned, and then, with another wave of a paintbrush, he vanished.

Howard and Vince turned to each other, dumbstruck. "Looks like you were finally able to save yourself, H'ward," the younger man weakly offered, with a crooked smile.

"Yeah. Temporarily."

"I'm… I'm… would it be weird to say I'm proud of you?"

Howard ignored this, and instead rode out the last waves of strength he had. "Why do you do this, Vince?" he asked. "I need a flippin' road map to follow all of your personality changes. You go from using some Camden whore to humiliate me after a particularly bold confession of mine, to crying over me and beggin' me not to leave you. Well, the cat's out of the bag, Vince, and I won't try to force it back in- I love you. But why shouldn't I leave you?"

"Howard, don't-"

"No, I'm finally speaking my mind, Sonny Jim, so I'd like to know. What exactly should keep me tied to your endless torment?"

"You don't understand-"

"You're right; I don't."

Angered by all the interruptions, Vince stood up and decided to heed the Soul of Art's last words and be honest. "Because I can't fucking function without you, ya dense idiot!"

Howard was rendered speechless for a few seconds, before asking, "…What?"

"When you ran off with your precious Jurgen, how do you think I held up? You think your sending the occasional postcard was sufficient? Postcards can't crimp, Howard! I didn't get out of bed for a soddin' week, and even when I did, I was hardly awake, 'cuz there was nothin' to keep me up! Leroy was there for me, and he offered to take me out to get my mind off everythin'. After you came back, I figured it'd be easier to push you away to avoid a repeat of that… and… and it was stupid, I know, but… you know how I am with abandonment." His voice weakened, as did his reserve; he slid back down onto the floor, his back against one side of Howard's bed.

The older man sat down beside him with a heavy sigh. Hesitantly, he put an arm around him. He still wasn't completely comfortable with physical contact- partly because he still didn't know how Vince felt about him- but he felt this called for it. His insecurities were erased, however, when Vince turned to push himself even closer, burying his face into his side. "Come on, Little Man," Howard began, unsure of what to say. "You know- or, you should know- that I'll never abandon you."

After a few minutes of silence passed, Vince lifted his head and asked, "Did you get my message?"

"What message?"

Vince looked at him, wondering whether or not he should retrieve his phone and have him hear the voicemail. The feeling of Howard holding him dashed that idea, though; he wasn't going to ruin this moment. "You can listen later," he said, before contentedly laying his head onto Howard's shoulder.

Ironic indeed, was all Howard could think. Looks like they'd both needed more reassurance than they'd ever let on.


	14. Your Soul You Must Keep Totally Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard and Vince successfully communicate.
> 
> Chapter title from 'Awake Your Soul' by Mumford & Sons.

The next evening found Howard and Vince in positions similar to the ones they'd been in the week before: the younger man had barricaded himself in the bathroom for a worryingly unnatural amount of time while the older man waited impatiently outside. The difference was that this time, Vince wasn't getting ready to go out.

"Come on, Little Man, what are you doing in there?" Howard asked, for what was surprisingly the first time that half hour. The room had been completely silent for an unnerving period, and the lack of hairdryer drone was deeply confusing.

"I'm… I'll be out in a bit, yeah?"

"That's what you said forty minutes ago. I'm coming in."

"No, Howard, it's not done yet!" Vince cried, sounding desperately insecure for once. The plea did nothing, however; Howard opened the door without hesitation, took a step in, and stared at the man in front of him. Vince smiled at him sheepishly, apparently having just been caught standing in front of the mirror for an undetermined amount of time. But this wasn't the cause of embarrassment; he'd been caught doing that enough. It was what he'd done beforehand. His long, meticulously layered black hair was shortened and lightened. The dirty blonde feather-cut had returned. "Alright?" he asked, his voice small and weak, as if he'd been seen stealing money.

Howard could only stare at the piles of black hair littered on the floor and at the modge podge of dye and products scattered across the counters. His mind reeled, failing to think of any reasonable motive for Vince Noir to alter such a great percentage of his life.

His sudden taciturnity worried Vince, who immediately felt twenty times more unsure of himself than before. "Alright?" he repeated. "Does it not… look okay? I know my face has changed a bit since I last rocked this out, but I figured… do you not like it?"

"No, of course I do," Howard replied, regaining his ability to form coherent sentences. "It's just… I'm getting flashbacks, sir."

Vince laughed, clearly relieved. "Flashbacks?" he asked. "Are you a war veteran?"

"You bet, Little Man. I was a brave sergeant back in the Great Zoo Wars."

"The Zoo Wars? Go on, then. Tell me all about them." Vince had to try hard to keep the giddiness out of his voice. He'd missed this. Building up the Jenga Jokes with absolutely no tension. How could they not do this every day?

"Well," began Howard, clearly racking his brain for any improvisational bullshitting gold, "it was a long time ago, Vince. It all started with a small conflict when the berks down at the London Zoo infiltrated our perimeters and kidnapped the dashing Tommy Nookah. Now, Tommy was the bravest of the brave, the fittest of the fit, the-"

"Yeah, can you get on with it?"

"Sorry. Anyway, Nookah was valuable, and we'd suddenly lost him. Howard Moon wasn't about to stand by and let his mentor be taken, no sir, so I confronted the ever-ignominious General Bainbridge. 'General', I'd said, 'General Bainbridge! You've gotta do somethin'; Tommy's been kidnapped!' And he said, 'Silence, you fool! If you want Tommy, you'll have to go to the London Zoo and get 'im out yourself!' You see, at this point, Dixon Bainbridge harbored an awful grudge against me. My mustache had put his to shame in the Great Mustache… Competition, and he'd never forgiven me. So once he'd finished crushing my hopes of retrieving Tommy easily, he ran off to the medical tent for an undoubtedly sensual sponge bath with Nurse Fossil."

Vince couldn't help but laugh at the petty gratification Howard was getting out of belittling their former nemesis.

"I took it upon myself, of course, as a man of action should," he continued. "That night, with a little help from Major Joey Moose, we broke into the London Zoo within the confines of a large wooden… cockerel. They thought it was just a gift, so they-"

"Hang on," interrupted Vince. "Wooden animal… capture of an important figure. Ain't this the story of the Trojan Man?"

"The Trojan Man is the logo for johnnies, Vince," Howard admonished.

"Well, you know what I mean! Come on now, Moon. That had a promisin' start, but then you started plagiarizing. Shame on you, Howard. Bainbridge could've pulled an original story right outta 'is mustache."

Howard looked around the room, as if for an escape, but, finding none, said, "How the hell do you know about Greek history?"

Vince smirked before admitting, "I went through your books last night after you fell asleep. I thought it'd freak you out a bit if I started bangin' on about mythology."

"Oh?" asked Howard, feigning offense. "Glad to see what privacy means to you, then, Little Man! If I ever catch you going through my stuff, I'll come at you fast and hard, like the dancing sand lizard, I'll-"

"I guess I should go through your stuff more often, then," said Vince, with a suggestive smile.

Howard felt himself blush, before remembering that it wasn't very manly of him, and then choked on his own words. "What?" he finally managed to ask.

Vince laughed and, without thinking, flung his arms around Howard's neck and drew him in. Contentedly resting his head against the older man's chest, he said, "I love you."

For once, Howard was happy for unexpected physical contact; it prevented Vince from seeing him blush even deeper than he had before. Thousands- no, millions would probably be more accurate- of 'I love yous' had been thrown into the air the previous day, as if making up for lost time, but the simple phrase would never cease to fill Howard with a certain youthfully foolish incredulity.

The preceding day had been the closest thing to perfection Howard had ever experienced. Following the departure of the Soul of Art, he and Vince had sat holding each other for hours, until they'd both fallen asleep right there on the floor. Howard had woken up much, much later to find Vince already conscious, not daring to move, staring at him intently.

"Christ, Vince, you nearly gave me a bleedin' heart attack!"he cried, taken off guard by the wide blue eyes fixed on him, and, more importantly, their surprisingly close proximity.

"Sorry, Howard, I was just…" Vince's voice trailed off, and suddenly he was clinging to his companion like a starfish to a rock, burying his face into his side once more. "I kept thinkin' that you wouldn't wake up," he managed to say. "I know that sounds stupid, but… I was worried. No adventure of ours has ever been solved jus' by explaining to the bad guy what happened; it seemed too easy."

Howard smiled, for once relishing in how honest his friend was being. "But he isn't really the bad guy, is he?"

"Yeah, he was."

"He's helping me, Vince. He has good intentions but goes about them in an unorthodox way."

"He almost took you from me. He's the bad guy," Vince stated, matter-of-factly. "I mean, what would I have done if… you made me, Howard. Not literally, of course, 'cuz that'd be well weird, but you made me into me, yeah?" When a few moments of smiled-through silence passed, Vince felt a surge of affection and kissed his best friend for the second time that night, quickly but with overwhelming passion, and said, "Oh, an'… I love you, too."

Howard had dreamed of hearing those words from Vince for years, and the instance had always been in some uncharacteristically romantic, sentimental, articulate speech. There were always tears, and kissing that put the film adaptations of those dreadfully trite Nicholas Sparks novels to shame, and selected pieces from Kenny G.'s 'Breathless' album would play softly to fit the gentle sway of the burning candle-light… never had he fantasized it being said in such a rushed and casual tone, and in such a morbid situation. But it was perfect in its imperfection, and Howard's preconceived, overly romantic notions were suddenly rendered stupid.

They spent the rest of the night on activities they always used to do, sans the Satsuma fights due to mutual exhaustion; there were crimping sessions and witty banter about the most miniscule of things; there were Colobos the Crab marathons and long talks about everything & nothing at all. Howard had fallen asleep on the couch, and, after acting out a fruitful invasion and perusal of his books, Vince grabbed a blanket and joined him there.

Unbeknownst to Howard, this was the very reason Vince had changed his beloved image. He'd felt like himself for the first time in years, and he figured he might as well look like himself, too. Besides, if Howard was going through great pains to change himself, then so would he.

Howard simply responded to this declaration by placing an awkward, timid kiss on the top of Vince's head and shyly inching himself out of the increasingly tight embrace. It was going to take a long time for him to get over his fear of affection, but his main incentive at the moment was to simply secure said time in the first place. Despite what he'd said about the Soul of Art helping him, he'd be perfectly content to avoid any future run-ins with the spirit.

Vince looked up at him with a knowing grin and asked, "The mess in here is botherin' you, innit?"

"Just a bit, yeah," Howard conceded, thankful for the change in topic.

The grin spread further across Vince's angled face, adding a dangerous glint to his eyes. "I'll promise to clean it all up quick-smart if you'll do somethin' for me."

"What?"

"I want you to paint me-"

"Yeah, I'm takin' a long hiatus from artwork, thank you very much."

"-wearing this," Vince concluded, pointing to the silver guitar pendant around his neck and slipping into what was meant to be a sensual American accent and tasteless movie reference. "Wearing only this."

Howard rolled his eyes and hid his intrigue very well behind his natural façade. "Pull the other one, yeah?" With that, he slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him in one fluid motion. "You're cleanin' up in there, Little Man!" he called from outside, just before barring the handle with a nearby chair to obviate any Noir escape attempts.

"Aw, come off it, Howard!"

"Clean up the hair!"

Although there was silence, Howard could've sworn he heard Vince sulking. "But…" the younger voice finally sounded, "I love you, remember?"

"That's a cheap shot, sir. Certainly won't get you out of cleaning up."

"But I do!"

Howard laughed despite himself, flooded with positive thoughts and two very new sensations that were more powerful than any of the shamanistic magic he'd encountered. If he'd had to have given them identities, he'd have guessed they were the first glimmers of hope and happiness. "I know you do. It was just a bit of a random thought to voice during the cleaning process," he said, after much internal debate. Then he added, "But I love you, too." Of course Howard could say it now. He could say anything from behind a closed door.

But the warm feeling that suffused him upon hearing Vince continue with his comically threatening complaints and attempts at escape & seduction told Howard that this wasn't just anything.

_Do your worst, Soul of Art. Howard T.J. Moon is comin' atcha, full force. ___


End file.
